Just trying to get through
Just trying to get through the days. There's no drink strong enough, and not green or beer or wine or spirts or distraction enough in the world to escape my sadness. So I stumble through. Some days are better than others. When I manage to get things done, whether cleaning the bathroom or vacuuming around the house, it's a small victory, to be sure, but a victor nonetheless. Know what evidence of bereavement is? It is going to the downstairs bathroom and seeing piles of dust bunnies along the trim, a filth that has accrued during my two months of taking care of my sister, and living in two cities alternately, and not bothering to clean it. I don't clean them the mess up, because. there is too much to do elsewhere in the house. In fact, there is two months' worth of things to catch up and resume some sort of semblance of a life. I think about writing a lot. I let the most baroque ideas of the past weeks return from their safe submersion in the well, then let them age, li