Suffering journalism

Time falls into silent crevasses without an eek, and before you know, the year is going into winter. Again you can see through branches after leaves are pushed to the ground; buildings and stop signs appear which once were hidden by green; a new landscape, a revelation of grey amid bone-bare branches. November is a brown month, even before the gravy pools in the mound of mashed potatoes that you shaped to hold a cup of the good stuff. Oh, gravy!

Too soon to look back to debrief the goings-on of the first eleven months, or should it be done with foresight so that the remaining month is planned out to the max? I consider myself lucky to be overloaded with the demands of this world, for it means I am alive and engaged with others. Sure, I'm the monastic sort with preferences leaning towards a porch and a shotgun, but to exist without interaction or risk isn't of worth to me.

This year me and my little cat family lost our Martian, whose remains are boxed and sitting on a dresser. What happens when I die? By law, they are not allowed to be put with me...my vet said to have their ashes sewn into pockets of my dress when buried. My lord, if they dropped me, such a foof of dust would arise from all of my cremated pets hidden in the seams. I will think of something. Martian's absence is still obvious.

And this. My friend Barbara also died recently on an early Saturday morning. She wanted to live, but faced the inevitable too soon from cancer. She was dignified, full of fun, beautiful in face, mind, and spirit. Her love continues. Pshaw, she would say.

Looking forward, what else can one do?