James D. Hogan

Another word for eight years

On January 7, 2019

Thomas still has pneumonia, and I’ve taken a chest cold. This seems to be my habit every other year or so–I am really hoping that this one won’t turn into pneumonia as well. I am not built well. At least my lungs. That’s what it feels like when you get a chest cold.

Last night I stayed up too late. I was coughing and dreading lying down, worried that I’d disturb Kel and keep her up. And my mind was already thinking about the full work week ahead. Things really swing back into motion full-time this week. Downtown was busier this morning on my drive in. It’s nice. The sun is back out, which is really nice. Dad said this weekend that something like six or seven of the last eight Fridays have been rainy. Maybe this chest cold is the result of a Vitamin D deficiency.

Be it hereby resolved

By James D. Hogan

On January 1, 2019

In diary

Mighty masses and vigorous shadows

By James D. Hogan

On December 31, 2018

In diary

DIARY

Thomas takes a photo booth self-portrait

Of girls, and creation, and the truth revealed in the depths of our shadows.

Dear Thomas Alan:

First, we should talk about girls. I think it should now be universally acknowledged that you, my boy, are much admired. Without us even realizing it, you’ve become the idée fixe of an increasing line of young women, several of whom have expressed an enthusiastic interest in becoming your betrothed.

And in your earnest defense, your reliable reaction to this news, which I share in this triennial birthday letter to you with only a hint of jealousy, is a dramatic, committed eye-roll. Which is to say, you’ve at least determined at this point in your life not to let such flattery define you. That’s worth something.

Last night I carried you in from the car after you’d fallen asleep on the way back from supper at your grandparents’ house. You were running a fever, and even though we worked to make sure you would blow out your candles and open presents in spite of not feeling well, it was clear you were spent. Your eyes were uncharacteristically weak; the bright flame of your curiosity had retreated. It wasn’t long before you’d nodded off.