A love letter to my grandmother, Mary Jane Carey, from one of her many WWII boyfriends. They called her "Rusty" for her gorgeous red locks, which keep turning up in the boxes of her belongings stored at my father's house. Apparently, she liked to keep the red curls that fell victim to the hair dresser's scissors.
A fresh bunch of flowers from the market that Damian brought home for me. Sunflowers and dahlias; fall is arriving too soon!
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