The footprint of every day leaves a deep impression on my heart.

Strangely, paradoxically, when I turn to see where I have been the events of each passing 24 hours has disappeared, no trace.

I look for meaning.

I hunger for meaning.

When it comes, if it comes – presented like a proud chef on the plate it has much less taste than expected.

The world is upside down and every unsecured thing is falling out though not all things at once.

It makes for hazardous passage.

I am diminished in spirit.  Held against the whetstone too long.  My anger is my sharpest point and it flares.

I am angered by the trivia. I am angered by the repetition in myself and others of foolish ideas.  I am angry over wasted time and am the queen of waste.

One of the people I counted on to take my hand, to hold me close, to tell me the truth when no one else would is gone.

We shared an affinity for each other.

Thoughts and opinions as different and as much the same as any one; we respected each other.

I depended on him in ways I did with no one else.  There is no replacement.  The investment of trust is irreplaceable.

Just when I think the gap is narrowed  the footing crumbles and I stand at edge unbalanced. I feel vulnerable.  I want to be able to trust the feelings of affection I have for others but they frighten me.  The pain of loss makes me draw back.

Sadness drapes a damp and heavy blanket  over me while telling me to move on all the while, move on.

So I move, but not onward.  I circle back when no one is looking.

I live and relive, shuffle and  reshuffle the cards dealt to me.   They come out the same every time.  He is gone.  I am still here.

Those I love still with me are suffering too.  They hurry just like me to try to fill up with something.  We do not and cannot fill up that empty space for each other.  It is not our place to fill.  We each occupy our own space in each other’s lives and it becomes its own work.

Every bit of logic cries to out us that we should be sure to make the most of every day, to waste no time and appreciate what we have.  But we fail to heed the cry.

The healing demands our time and energy and focus, if there is healing to be had.

Healing seems to me to be the wrong word.

Adapting?  Is that what we are doing, adapting to the change?

Swift, sudden, unexpected, unanticipated, ripping everything up by the roots – change.

I’ve used up all my metaphors for the day, for the year, for my life and I don’t think it has helped.  They won’t stick.

I’m not even sure who beyond myself I keep trying to explain this too.

Life has become such an effort.  It has never been easy but my perception was beautifully flawed while my son was alive.  I long for those days.