There are papers and a pen and rattling off of numbers and this is the way we do this and this is the way we do that. Sign here, put the date there.
What year is it?
Oh yeah, fifteen years ago is now fifteen years later.
I think of writing her a letter, the young woman who will own this house.
Except for whatever reason I am having problems writing.
Denying a piece of us died doesn't make us any more alive. Maybe lately I've just been grieving.
Today I am grateful to be able to tell myself there are cycles to this life and with death comes birth and it is my choice on which to focus.
It's just taking me a moment. Thank you, my dear sweet, you must think I have lost it, reader.