. . . exactly one month from today. Hardly seems possible.
Life is nothing like what I expected when McCartney and Lennon first wrote the song. No knitting by the fireside, no digging in the garden, hardly any postcards any more (unless they're the “e” kind), and certainly no bottles of wine.
No grandchildren. Not even any great nephews or nieces. I do have cats (something that was, I'm sure inadvertently, left out of the song since “cat” rhymes with so many other words), and I'm hoping someone will send me a valentine!
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