Sam took the cutest photo of Louie riding Mia like a broncing bull the other day and now I can't find it.

Things that make me go hmmm. Of all the things in my life, my digital photo albums are the most organized. Maybe their order can branch out and infect the rest of my life.

Yesterday while driving to work, I was truck with melancholy remembrance as I thought of going home this summer to spread grandma's ashes. While I was pondering, I was struck with the notion that I want my ashes buried under the Graham Thomas rose in my Mom and Dad's Garden. Of all the roses I've seen, it is the Graham that I'm convinced possesses a soul. It's golden petals scented of honey, the light refracting inwards to it's heart that is alight as if a fragile ember resides within. Yes, I want a hole dug next to it, like Mom and I used to do when I know more then a little tike to bury banana peels to feed the roses potassium, and my ashes placed there to be consumed by the earth and to nourish the embers in those blossoms.

I want to call Janet, the head witch at the community garden, she has connections with gardeners and horticulturalists in high places. Community oriented folk, who I'm sure will want to dive in and lend there expertise to my new position at school and make it all a resounding success.