My Little Golden Book of Phobias

Today I drove by the little park next to the house where Kurt Cobain died. There is a bench in the middle. It was covered with flowers and candles. They new owners tore down the building where he actually died. The grieving goes on and on, even though there is no "place". We keep visiting the poets because we have to.

I'm all shivery. I think I'm getting a cold, an excuse for hot toddies, brandy, hot water, honey and a curl of lemon zest. And complete sloth on the couch in my jammies.