You: Jaaaaane…. Jaaaaane… where are you Jaaaane? Where are my postcards?
Jane: Don’t talk to me. I’m proofing.
I’m almost done, almost done, almost back. You’ll get a tiny postcard this weekend, and over November, we will finish Havana—and then take a break for December… because how cruel would it be, to send you Postcards from Cuba while you’re bracing for a cold Canadian winter? I’m going to wait until January before doing that to you—you can enjoy our frosty December without that cruel taunt.
In the meantime…
Flora: Mom? When did we stop having lunch? Is that something we’re going to start doing again?
Cinder: I miss lunch. Lunch was good.
Ender: What’s lunch?
Don’t feel too sorry for them. The house is full of food. Also, I have kind neighbours.
Her: Just wanted to let you know, your two littles are here. Can they stay for supper?
Her: Do you want me to send something over for Cinder?
Her: Have you eaten anything today?
I’ll eat soon.
The house is full of food. Nuts and dried cherries and…
You: What the fuck are you, a squirrel?
…and Sean keeps on coming home with chocolate and cream, and it keeps on disappearing, so I’m pretty sure I’m eating.
Confession: I love this.
I mean, it’s killing me, and my back and neck are stiff, and I want to claw out my eyes, and the house has descended into a new state of chaos—one of Ender’s friends thought she lost her iPod in our living room the other day, and I looked at the room, and I looked at her, and I sighed, “Well, that’s that then. You’ll have to ask your parents for a new one,” because looking for it would require excavation—and I’m feeling overwhelmed and terrified I will miss all my deadlines… but I love it.
So there you go.
Remind me of that when I moan about how much I have on my plate right now.
You: You love it.
Jane: I hate you. Shut up.
Or, just bring me chocolate.
The real reason I’m writing to you today, though…
You: Because you missed me?
Jane: No, you missed ME. Remember? YOU, I carry around in my head always. We’re never apart.
…is because my silence and the disappearance of the postcards from your in-box is a perfect illustration of the fact that the only way shit happens is… DEADLINES.
Before the end of this weekend, you will get an excerpt from a love letter. To tide you over until next week.
On November 9: a riff on racism.
On November 16: facts of life.
On November 23: sketchy—effectively, the Havana finale.
On November 30: “I miss you today.”
I have put it down in black and white; I have committed, and it doesn’t matter what else falls onto my plate in November, you will get your postcards.
The only way anything gets done.
PS Some “from the archives” reading that is very apropos right now:
- Priorities, baby, priorities—or, “I don’t” as an answer to “How do you do it all?”
- The AP Hair Style: I don’t brush my children’s hair. It’s a massive philosophical thing. Really