226 days more or less since you died in my arms. The winter of bottomless grief is over - the spring of beginning to emerge is passed. Summer is here, finally, but only in the season of the solstice.
The white egret flew over the house when Harry Chapin sang our song, my arms rasied to the sky - Circles - "our love is like a circle, let's go round one more time."
What now, my love? Grief comes in many disguises - sometimes as straight forward as a ragged wound - held and moaned for. Other times a bottomless pit of weeping - then time goes on and pieces of of one's life are picked up - beware the guerrilla grief. She comes and whaps you from behind when you least expect it - she is a debutaunte hopeful in her ballgown, she is a housewife content in apron with a solitary skillet in hand - she is a martini glass with perfect pick impaling a blue cheese olive - she allows you to think again and then whoof - you are back in the never, never land of "what happens next."
Perhaps I should "go back to New Mexico." Perhaps I should just trust the process.
So, the house is remodeled - just one more week and it will be transformed. What is my life without you - how shall I make the next steps - what shall I be now, without you.