I suppose if one is going on a quest, then getting plenty of rest might be a good first step. Sounds sort of prosaic, but it feels right.

I’m going on a quest. I may actually already be on one. It may have started when my wife died, or even before that. It may not be important. But suddenly things feel purposeful.

The feeder is up, and the birds have finally arrived. For many long days it hung there in the branches of the mesquite by the pasture fence looking abandoned. Then gradually, one at time here they came.

Yesterday, as I sat filling out paperwork, for a dental procedure, my phone flashed on. The assistant who was helping me, said, “Oh, that’s nice,” when she saw the picture of me and my wife, in a warm embrace, on the home screen. I said, “Thanks,” then, after a small pause, added, “She passed away in August.”

Changed the sheets, made the bed, took a long walk, and visited my wife’s grave. Yesterday was a good day because I also had a revelation.

I know spring is coming, because I can see the discrete little signs, budding leaves are all around, on the roses and on the trees. But for some reason, the start of the season seems disconsolate,,,

I spent the weekend in the company of friends. Two days. All centered around music and food.

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.