You would think my ongoing diligence about searching the sky for signs would be rewarded one day, but no. After 40 years, still nothing there.
The van's battery died, so I was obviously destined to do nothing else today but read (I may be lacking in signs, but of auspices I have many). Nathan's class is studying To Kill a Mockingbird, so I sat down with a copy and read it cover to cover. Third time reading, first time crying. It's always touched me, been my favourite book from the moment I opened it, but something very sad and middle-aged came up to bite me on my metaphorical and highly emotional backside. Atticus Finch is a fiction. Damn bloody blast.