Someone made me look back, suggested I read the past again. I feel it all, still, in my chest and remember the celebration of moments and the desperation of losing them. Well, you're not dead. You didn't die without them, but the landscape has changed and the road you now walk is unfamiliar and strange. It's not good to be alive - it's a heavy pack and a long road, mostly. You take it off to sleep, which you are grateful for, and then you lift it on again upon waking, This while you've really got nothing to complain about. Your house still has it's roof, the plates here have not shifted disruptively, the ground is still and dry beneath your feet. In September, I hear Blue Jays more often and their cries touch me like an imagined friend, leaving me warmer in imagination and colder in the world.
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