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.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe