For over a month now most of my time has been spent focusing on my father's health and future. I find myself nervous, anxious, and generally out of sorts if I'm not thinking about such things. If I don't visit for a day I wonder if he's lonely, if he's scared...which is odd, as I never spoke with him every day when he lived alone.

I'm not a big phone talker, I'm just not. With my father it was usually about once or twice a week when he was well. I usually spend about two hours on the phone with a friend of mine from Colorado about every few months...more often than not several months can go by between our conversations, so it's deserving of the length of time and I look forward to the chats.

This was us back in July of last year...discussing the merits of Google phones vs. iPhones.

No clue how I became anti-phone, but I just am...similarly, although I love the immediate nature of email, I also love a slowly composed hand written letter that arrives with a cute stamp and my script with your name on the envelope.

The sound of a scratch of pen across really thick parchment is something that simply cannot be replaced. For me it's the sound of pressure (to fill the page,) mixed with a delicate balance of potential for what could appear in print.

It's a delicious feeling...in a time of turmoil and anxiety.