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I guess we all want to be remembered somehow. In these new times you can get a small ashy portion of yourself boosted into space to orbit among the lottery tickets and pizza crusts left behind by the astronauts.

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I should really hold another yard sale. It’s been a good 20 years since the last one and the old place is brimming again with so many items that SEEMED like wise purchases at the time but, really, were they ever?

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Maybe it’s all this endless daylight, but things suddenly look as crisp to me as a head of iceberg lettuce in a chilly fridge — which is to say I’m noticing things now that I never noticed before.

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While sifting through some old papers in this quiet month, I came upon a stack of letters. They detail a relationship begun some 100 years ago, when my then-eight-year-old mom first began spending some serious time with the seven-year-old cousin who would go on to become her very first friend.

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It started with the new mattress we bought because our old mattress had two very deep, distinctly person-shaped troughs in it, one on my side and one on ‘his.’

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What Fate really loves to do is to wait until you start to relax a little after running a steeplechase like The Holidays and then — bam! — present you with all new hurdles to clear.

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I was at the office of a bone specialist, whose waiting room as I walked in held just one elderly couple. The husband of the pair was filling out his wife’s health history on a clipboard.