Since the beginning of the year, I’ve had my own shingle. It’s a second job that I do at night and on weekends. Mostly wills but also legal research and whatnot… writing documents for a flat fee, basically.
Depsite working two jobs, its a struggle just to get by. Yet the kids seem good. Not a day goes by that I don’t marvel at how much they have adjusted and recovered and thrived from those dark early, scary and sad days. And that’s how it will go, I suppose. Things will be better for my children because of my sacrifice. Certainly, that is what happened with me and my parent, and with my parent and their parents before.
Here’s the lyric:
Then they wouldn’t understand a word we say,
So we’ll scratch it all down into the clay
Half believing there will sometime come a day
Someone gives a damn
Maybe when the concrete has crumbled to sand
...All my darkest hours talking like this... 