I'm looking out the window at the intermittent sun. The heat is on. I feel like getting into the bathtub to warm up. Lassitude, that's what this is. When I have time, I waste it. I read, I eat licorice, I drink a lot of tea. I could be in the garden. I could be writing brilliant poetry. I could be working on a painting.
Grief, round two. Sandy died and I couldn't get to Portland. I haven't been present for a number of people when they died. Sure, sudden death doesn't count. And there will be a memorial for Sandy. But my mother died and we did NOTHING. A few years later, I was visiting my brother and he went to the garage and came back with a plastic box. Mom. Sitting in the garage with the garden tools and bicycles. Sheesh.
I held the box on my lap on the plane back to Seattle. Eventually, I scattered her ashes on Mt Rainier, in a snow storm. The wind blew bits of her into my mouth. I found ashes in my pockets after I got home.
I start looking down the depression corridor and I can't seem to stop. I don't like it there but I have friends there. It's familiar and I know how to behave. I pull up my coat collar and put on some gloves.