I think back, and I know exactly where it started: a double wedding ring quilt that was sewn by my father's mother. I didn't know her well; let's just say there were severe family differences, but I was too young to be cognizant of that fact at the time. I just knew that I liked the quilt, and it kept me warm. When I look back through the eyes of adulthood, the eyes of someone who has now made a few quilts of her own, I know it was probably pieced out of clothing scraps, and the centers were either plain white cotton or unbleached muslin.

The batting was cotton. It's why I still like the low, dense loft of cotton now. I remember how this quilt felt against my body as a child, and that I seek that same sensation in quilts now. Polyester has the same warmth, but it's weirdly fluffy to me.

Coming home from my mother's wedding, with thoughts of Washington and Arkansas and Alabama mixing reluctantly in my head like oil and water, the thought hit me. Last Q standing.

From Jeff's grandmother's surprise 80th birthday party this weekend, I present definitive photographic proof that Jeff was not hatched. The 'hatched' theory holds no water when you see how much the entire family resembles each other. Link goes to photoset, or click the photo below:

Six years, it's been. Six years and nine days to be exact, and I'm still here. I owe you a debt of thanks, those few of you who have kept wandering by, even when the muse packed up and flew to warmer climes every now and then. (These past few months have been another instance of that recurring problem, but it seems to be ending, as the urge to write has been returning as of late.)

I think it unlikely that I will post a public chronicle of my days spent in Arkansas, for reasons that are abundantly clear in the private entry posted directly before this one, but there is one story that I wanted to tell. It was not for what I did, but for what I chose not to do.The dead cross daily with the living in Tull; it is a place in which your memories and your past confront you even during the smallest of errands.

Truth is, I haven't let myself think about it much. Three hundred and eighty-five miles is nothing when compared to the scale of a planet, but it's a planet when compared to the scale of a life. While putting together my breakfast this morning I asked myself what the hell, exactly, I thought I was doing, planning on returning to the town of my birth. What do I hope to see? What do I hope to accomplish?

I'm not sure.

Lest we forget: life is so achingly fragile, and there are no second chances.

A week ago today was the fourth anniversary of my father's death. That morning, I asked myself the kind of question that defines the difference between adulthood and childhood: "If I had no more chances after today, what would be my greatest regret?"

For me, the answer was clear. Something about the day, the anniversary—something indefinable and pressing—meant that I spent that morning finally doing something about it. Actions that may or may not get written about here. It's too personal, and has ramifications on lives not my own. Even if I could write it, I am not sure that I should.

Today, after a crossword-and-cat-induced nap, we dressed and headed out for Indian food, at a restaurant in which we are regulars ("No bread tonight?") and came home to a message on the answering machine.

If I can cough, I can breathe, and if I can breathe, I'm still here. 'Here' is a relative term, though, and one whose definition will change a few times in the coming weeks. More so than I'd planned even a month ago, and more so than I've said publicly.I have a plane ticket with my name on it, a ticket that will send me away for a week for a trip that's been delayed since October for various reasons. Instead of an exciting, action-packed Vacation!™ I think I will be … escaping. Resting. I will be gone for a week, and I have zero plans for that week.

Hark! The mothership comes.

After laughing for ages at how Shauny refers to her mother as The Mothership, I feel the need to steal her reference for the next few days. For lo, the Mothership is preparing to wing her way from the Tulliverse to Huntsvegas, and the Huntsvegas natives may never be the same.

Translation: yep, we're so busted. Mom's coming to visit. Time to clean the cupboards and hide the naughties.

There are very specific, yet unwritten, Rules Of Conduct that must be followed in order to guarantee a successful parental visit. For those of you who missed the peer-to-peer lecture, here's a quick checklist to ensure that your visit will conclude with a minimum of cranial explosions or disownments:

Three hours and fifteen minutes into Thanksgiving, I'm playing a nearly-inaudible set of songs over Winamp, cursing my nocturnal habits, and wondering just when the heck I'm ever going to grow up enough to have holidays at my own house.

Southern families have rules. Nobody bothers writing them down, because why waste paper writing down the obvious? These things are all on the same level of obviousness:

• Left shoe goes on left foot. Right shoe goes on right foot. There should be no leftovers, either of shoes or of feet.
• When someone dies, don't send flowers. Send casseroles.
• You're coming home for the holidays, and don't give us any lip about it either.

So what's the dividing line, exactly? What causes the change in stature from Scion Of Existing Family to External Independent Familial Unit? When is it not just accepted, but expected, that your holidays will be spent under your own roof?