This weekend Marshall and I drove to Murfreesboro so I could workshop an essay with Katie Gray.  And have fun at Busby Hollow.  When we walked into the house it was deserted, but music was solemnly wandering through the kitchen, and a trail of flowers across the floor was leading into the living room.  It was lit up like a prism with candles and flowers, and in the middle of the room was a table loaded with wine and cheese and fruit.  I try to avoid surprises, in my life, but Marshall knows this.  And doesn’t allow.  Instead, he gives me a letter he wrote to me last year and never sent, he follows his brother’s advice and gets on one knee, he asks me for the last time.  I am growing up, for sure.