November 30, 2024

My dearest,

November has slipped by us like a thief in the night. We barely observe its passing when this month’s quota of thirty days are up.

Where did all the time go?

A road trip down south, to catch up with family and friends. Our garden expanding at a steady clip; we seem to be constantly buying pots and potting mix.

We eat well, thanks to your kitchen adventures. You have a new wok too! You season it carefully, once, twice, then begin to stir fry with abandon, like a masterful chef.

Our kitchen provides us with more joy beyond delicious meals. We spend plenty of time staring out of the wide, tall windows at our garden. The pots of moss roses and pink Mexican petunias, of African daisies and white angelonia.

The pair of sunbirds that visit our hibiscus, pecking away at the blooms for nectar. The way they ignore how other pollinators feed by stabbing the base of the flowers directly. Clever little birds.

Then there are the trees beyond our garden. The one tree that so many birds love to visit: pink-necked green pigeons, mynas and magpies, crows and hordes of those Asian glossy starlings (the tiny black birds with sinister red eyes).

And bird-eaters too.

No, not raptors. Not eagles or hawks. Just your preferred way to call Merops viridis. The blue-throated bee-eater.

I think bird-eater sounds more fearsome and fun though. Just as you are, my dearest.

Yours, ever and always.