I woke early. I am not sure what woke me. I dragged myself out of bed & did some laundry. I put coffee on, washed some stray dishes (out from the night before) & opened the house up. iPhone weather said there was a 30% chance of rain by 9am. I hustled to get use of the sun to dry my clothes. 21kgs of clean clothes were hung up to dry before anyone else got up.
By (a rainless) 9am, I was exhausted. I fed Bowie & sent Paul back to bed (he has been cranky af these past days. It is a serious downer).
I sat in the morning sun, attempting to bronze my skin before the blistery winter begins. I knit up one of the pieces on my queue (during Easter I paired all of my stray yarn with a project) & sat with Isobel as she gossiped. My coffee had begun to separate from the oat milk (tastes the same but looks gross in a glass mug) & my water was warm as a bath, so I retreated.
Then, I went to visit my dead.
I tended the plot & sat. I whispered a conversation (half out loud, half thought in my head) of frustration laced with the smallest dust of hopefulness.
Fuck, I miss him. I know it is known that I do but really, I miss his face. I do not dwell on it. Not anymore… it seems pointless to spend my life longing for the dead. I have eternity to be dead – this is my time to live.
It is hard to make the good things last.