Ooh, look who slept till 6:30. Good on me. (I hate that phrase for no reason, but I’m keeping it.)

The day stretches out in front of me.
Chores, sure, we’ve covered that.
Coffee or Coke Zero soon. Please, God.

On today’s crucial to-do list:

• Sort the breadbasket (it gets away from you)
• Reclaim the fruit bowl from the brink

So far, my brain, currently emperor of this body, has not deigned to tell me
whether I’m allowed to work, read, or write. So far, nothing appeals.

I tried a poem about the Libby app earlier. It’s got promise. It’s also wonky. It feels like that essay on the evils of technology that Frank self-importantly writes in You’ve Got Mail.
We’ll circle back.

I’m not sleepy.
I don’t want to watch someone else’s version of reality.

A friend texted:
“How are you feeling?”
“Not myself.”
“It’ll take a minute.”

Unfortunately, I already knew that. She, too, has had occasion to grieve. Bless her.

But I’m a little more myself today.

Yesterday, I found that Henry James author’s preface to Portrait on Librivox and listened to it like it was a sermon after having read it for about two hours.
Got it, got it, got it.

Yesterday, I napped.

I woke up.

I remembered again.

Every time, like new.

It’s probably ridiculous, but I don’t like her being alone at the funeral home.
I want her planted between my dad and my sister where she belongs. Safe. Protected.

That version of her at the hospital, the “her” she’d become in the past year, wasn’t her, not really.

Not until I looked through the old photo albums to make the memory board.

Then, the woman who died became also my mother, not just the sweet, quiet shell I helped guide into the afterlife. I’m tempted to overexplain that. But you get it, right?

A friend is having a party on Saturday.
When I saw it on the calendar, I texted her: “Obviously, I won’t make it.”
She understood.

Last summer, she and I drove out to the cemetery. I “introduced” her to the plot.
We sat on my dad’s bench and caught up.
(My mom’s name is on it too, but until now I never thought of it as “their” bench.)

Forgot I have to wash my hair today. It’s getting long because I’m growing it to donate. But for now, I’m kinda liking it this length, even though some would say at this age I shouldn’t. Washing and drying it are a whole thing with these curls. Today, that’s fine.

Today will fill itself up. No doubt.
But my fingers ache with the weather, and everything I write feels like it belongs in a children’s book—just… not the content.

I have nothing fresh to offer. Nothing witty.
I’m not even listening to music. Just the hum of the fridge.

I took an ibuprofen, am flexing my fingers. They’ll be fine soon enough.

Wish the rest of me would recover as quickly.

I’m pretty sure there’s nothing to read here. Nothing to see.

But here you are, reading. Thank you.

Yeah, babe. This is me grieving, too.