No, it’s not Mother’s Day.
It’s not Valentine’s Day either — that was almost five months and 50 degrees ago.
Your birthday was in April and our anniversary isn’t until September.
No, you’re not dying. Nor am I dying; at least I hope not. Though there were certainly a few days last week when my gout-riddled big toe felt like it was dragging me across the veil.
No, I’m not writing from the guilt zip code or feeling like I need to apologize for some significant indiscretion.
Well, there was that one afternoon. . .