Yesterday was good.
It shouldn’t have been.
It had no right to be.
In a move I’d been putting off for 4 ½ months, I packed up the toys of my 17-year old muse who died this spring.
It was brutal and messy, a fresh gut-punch to a still seeping and weeping wound.
Oh, I came out the other side of it ugly, tear-stained and mangled… but I came out the other side.
And, somehow, I went to bed feeling the day was good.
Is this progress or just a new level of crazy at work?
Only time or the psychiatrist will tell.