More often than not, when I'd arrive at the house to put in another day's work of sorting through generations of family history, the thermometer in the kitchen - the little one that read the outside temp from a wire snaked through the window - would read 66.6. It made me chuckle every single time, and I'm still wondering who it was delivering that message. Sometimes I think it was Hekate trying to lighten the mood before yet another intense session of familial and ancestral processing, digesting, cleansing.

Whoever left the message again and again, I thank you - again and again. Without the little bits of humor the mundane always seems so rife with, I'm not sure how anyone might maintain the neural networks capable of handling such trite and insufficient consideration from the very people who mean so much to you that you quite literally have set your life aside time and time again to be there for. But we all know those red flags are flying across that last sentence, don't we... and as the game of catch the flag nears a close it does seem unlikely that we might ever let them be set out for catching again. Too tired of playing, we be.