Two days ago it was our twenty-first wedding anniversary.  Lovely day.  50 degrees, rainy, out-door field trip with my class.  You know.  But I wrote Silas a sonnet.  And he said he liked it, as we were brushing past each other in the kitchen getting dinner on the table.  And I was trying not to forget to mail in our car insurance payment and we were deciding how we would get to the title company office on Friday to sign papers for the sale of our house.  Very romantic and all.

Now, if I had any say in matters, we wouldn’t even have cars, so we wouldn’t need car insurance.  And our houses and possessions would be so simple that we wouldn’t need home owners insurance.  And we’d just die with dignity in our beds surrounded by our loved ones (instead of in hospitals surrounded by expensive electronic devices) so we wouldn’t need health insurance.  And then maybe we could spend our anniversary outside by the lemon balm in peace.

But that’s just me.  I don’t like insurance.  It costs a lot.  And you can’t eat it or live in it or sit on it or even put it on a shelf and admire it.  It’s nothing.  It’s very inefficient.  I think we took a wrong turn somewhere, maybe back in ancient Greece.  Can’t we just start over?

I guess not.  And getting ready to move makes you look it all in the face.  Because you have to reapply for all that insurance.  You have to realize how much it costs all over again.  You have to feel trapped in the system.

Today (if it stops raining at any point) I’m going to go out and trim the lemon balm.  And the mint.  And play guitar.  And I’ll try not to think about insurance.  Joseph and I will be planning his birthday party.  He’s going to be 11 on Tuesday.  Maybe Silas and I will have a few quiet moments to ponder our twenty-one years of marriage.


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