Marina
Downstairs, from my bedroom at Candice's, I can see the lights of the marina. I am surrounded by water, boats, and the possibilities of life on the water this year. By day, from the main floor, there's the deck and the stairs to the water — muddied here from three days and nights of hard rain, but water none-the-less.
I'm watching the view, and typing. My phone has been ringing every hour and I'm ignoring it. I used to believe if it rang I had to answer it. I no longer believe that. Now I have more important stuff to do - like watch muddy water flow by. Or the woodpeckers at the bird feeder, or the dog chasing squirrels.
Grief is odd. It comes and goes and nothing else matters when it's in the room. Not phones. Not bills. Not clients. Not jobs. Not anything.
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