A twinkle of a sound. A flash of color. A tiny smile.
A skeleton eating homemade pies in a small room. A kitchen used for heating soup, boiling potatoes, making liters and liters and liters of coffee.
An obituary: a rotting smell, an ancient, beautiful young man.
A Christmas card, a useless lung, an empty bed, much laughter, an understanding, five or six months.
How many words did you speak before this? How many after? How many words have you read before this? How many after?
It is not anger, it is sadness. Another death. It will be the last.
Moving on: We will build a wood cabin in the forest of the sadness of this year. We will cut the trees and form the boards. (We will plant replacement trees and beg the nature spirits to forgive us.)
We will see new places and meet new people. (These people will not have social problems and will love us.) We will make beautiful art and music. There will be more joy than any heartbreak of the last decade.
We will be kind and strong. We will move on like creek waters from things and people who will prefer to stay behind.