This morning I was trying to write a letter to my daughter in El Salvador. I couldn't think with the blank page staring back at me.
I remembered how my dad used to write letters every Sunday morning, telling each one of his children what he ate for breakfast (a fried egg, bacon, one glass of juice, black coffee) and whether or not it had rained recently.
Dear Suzanne, I began. It's been a dry summer. So dry the deer flies in the woods haven't chased me once. I saw a heron this morning, way up in a sycamore tree. It looked like a tall skinny lady on tippy toes before it flew off.
Is that all I had to say? I thought of adding the oatmeal I ate, the dog asleep on my lap . . . Then I tossed the letter in the trash. Suddenly I felt old.