Spring days have a nice feel to them. Chill in the morning, warming in the afternoon, chill at night. I can embark on my day’s gardening, knowing the sun will warm my work, and the evening will bring me peace.

I’ve always dressed and acted to a self-image I carry around in my mind. Up until now it’s been relatively ageless, partly because it was based on the reflection I saw in my wife’s eyes.

This is about grief. So, turn away if that bothers you. Yesterday started out with much promise. The weather had warmed, the sun was out, the roads were clear, and I had a list of errands to run.

There’s a picture of a hug on my phone. It’s between me and my late wife. Her left cheek rests on my right breast, the top of her head close to my chin, her face turned to the camera. She’s smiling.

I got a dashcam for Christmas, but that’s not the story, just the beginning.

Death came knocking on the family door again. Yesterday, my first cousin once removed, Helen, the daughter of my grandmother’s younger brother, passed away. She blessed the earth with her presence for nearly 88 years.

It’s Sunday. I used to take the day off. Pause my literary output. I guess I thought it would keep me fresh. But an odd thing happened. The word spigot, once turned on, likes to stay that way. So, here I am on a gray winter’s morning sitting at my screen, coffee cup to the left, and the cat at my feet or in my lap or just walking around meowing, because she’s been out all night and needs a little love before her daytime slumbers.

I did another long walk yesterday. When I got home, I was pooped. Two and half miles with more elevation change than the last trip, probably because I got closer to the river. In addition to being pooped I felt enervated, totally lacking the will to do anything, which is what I did most of the day, nothing.

It’s a fine winter’s morning here on the outskirts of our little town, and I confess to feeling blessed.

It’s raining in the Hill Country this morning. Later today we might get snow. It’s Sunday morning. I’d go to church if I could because it just feels like a day for that. It’s been a hard week.

I bought a little statue of a sitting angel that I’m going to glue to a rock and put at my wife’s grave. While I have the landscape cement out, I’m going to fix some of the other garden statues. One of those was a sitting angel that she liked, which is why I bought the new one.

I have a major couch, a minor couch, and two easy chairs in my front room, seating for seven if everyone likes one another or is at least willing to tolerate them. It’s been a long while since all the seats were taken and it will be a long while again before it happens once more.

There’s a new world of light bulbs and it involves kelvins and lumens; one will tell you the color of the light and the other it’s brightness. Having been raised in an incandescent world, I can tell you I’ve had a hard time wrapping my head around it.

Christmas came, as I knew it would. I put up the little tree on Christmas eve. It stands about two feet tall. Then I installed the ceramic nativity set on the hearth. Two essential decorations, one a nod to the commercial, the other a nod to the religious.

I’m starting to get a Christmas tingle. Normally, by this time of the season I’m worn out and ready for it to end. Now, I feel like it’s just getting started. I’m glad I held off on the decorations, both inside and out. Christmas day this year may actually be more like a religious holiday than a commercial festival.

A measurable rain fell yesterday morning. Except the device with which said measurements are conducted, failed. Broke. Developed a crack. I was looking forward to the post rain trip to the fence but was sorely disappointed to discover upon arrival no solid evidence of the rain I had just witnessed.

Yesterday was an ordinary day until about five p.m. Then I got the text, along with pictures, that my wife’s monument had been placed. Nothing like a ton of gray granite with your loved one’s name engraved on it to announce the finality of death.

I finally planted the Pansies. Originally scheduled for porch pots, I put them in the ground. Now I can see them when I look out the kitchen window.

It’s a cold, spare morning today, just like the other cold, spare mornings that preceded it this week. There’s nary a breeze, and it’s setting up to be a nice day. Should be easy on a personal level as well.

Standing in the dark of my yard, staring across the dark of the park next door, I can see above the tree line the Christmas lights of Pedernales Electric co-op.