There are only twenty-seven days left of our excilement.
Saturday she leaves to councel at camp, and we will only hear one another's voices once a week.
Her letters will be full of arts and crafts and stories about eight-year-olds breaking rules and creating summer friendships.
My letters will be full of my new job and surviving my roommates and Boston's humidity.
And there will be care packages for my sunburned lifeguard (how appropriate that she should be a lifeguard with her nurturing, always sensitive, sometimes too sensitive soul).
And in twenty-seven days. In twenty-seven days, we shall melt into tingles and sounds and joy.