The death of my friend this week got me thinking about the death of my wife. A natural progression. It’s been three and a half years since she died.

Another life is over. Another friend is gone. And now the ripples of grief are running through the fabric of the lives he touched.

Dishes. I have dishes. It’s amazing the variety of dishes a couple can collect in 50 years of marriage while raising three kids. We have three sets of China.

The approach to the new year has slowed a bit. It’s still two days away, and while I know I’m going to reassess my budget next year that’s about the only thing I know for sure. Today feels like a big pause…

Almost bought an angel. Did buy a Santa. Angels were my wife’s thing, until they weren’t. One Christmas she said no more angels. I guess we were full up. Santa’s just appeared, irregularly. So, it wasn’t very strange for me to buy a Santa.

This new epoch of mine, the Guadalupian, which came to me after I reached the top of Guadalupe Peak last month is proving to be quite the thing.

Finished decorating the Christmas tree yesterday. Wrapped it with gold tinsel garland and hung the ornaments.

I hate to say anything before it happens, because sometimes talking about something before you do it dooms the plan to failure…

If you’d like a good example of how faulty memory can be. I have an example for you.

Travel day. The road awaits. Friends are at the end. And music. But if I’m honest. It’s the friends that count. The one with whom I’ll travel, and those we’ll both soon see.

Here I sit in my second floor room in my daughter’s home looking out the window into their backyard. The house is quite. I’m quite. In a few moments, we’re getting close to seven a.m., the waking will start.

Oh, boy. Another day. Another road trip. It’s back to Marathon. It’s the Marathon Songwriters Festival. This is my third year. I mark the first, in 2021, as the beginning of my recovery from the loss of my wife in 2020.

Yesterday took me by surprise. The third anniversary of my wife’s death. I thought I was ready. I could see it coming. But I felt good. I was on the move. Getting things done. Planning. Then the day dawned.

Got home late last night from an evening of music and camaraderie. It was cool outside and the moonlight lit the back porch and bathed the pasture beyond in it’s soft light. I didn’t linger long.

I can tell I’m feeling good these days because my mind is swirling with ideas. Things to do. With my yard. With my music. With Gatewood Press. And in addition to swirling, the ideas are actually being put into action.

I feel as though I am once again jacked into the world. Connected. Doing things.

On most mornings I water the plants around my porch with moisture collected in my rainwater drums. I start in the front by the big oaks. Then I move to the new salvia at the end of the house and then on to the back.

The party’s over. It was a success. But the afterglow is fading. I thought it might last longer. But there it goes becoming a thing of the past.

It’s gonna be a good day. It started out that way. I got Wordle in two. It happens less than five percent of the time.

It seems a simple thing. Thursday is trash day. It needs to be on the street by seven a.m. I missed it yesterday as I have missed it many days. My late wife never missed it. Never.