(no subject)
It's a teeny, tiny, itty bitty bit easier today. I haven't wailed. I have cried. Multiple times. But not in the same gut-wrenching way, mostly. I cried the hardest after I put the banana nut bread in the oven, based on my mother's recipe, in her handwriting in my recipe box she gave me years ago. It called for baking soda and I was expecting baking powder and just a couple days ago I could have called her and made sure it was written correctly. But I can't do that now, or ever again. I can't ask about her "hippie days", or all the things I thought I had time to ask later. About her life, my grandmother, anything at all. All that knowledge lost forever. I have a jar of garlic mustard with a cat on the label I bought her for last Christmas and forgot to send and forgot to give her in May when she visited. I don't know what to do with it now. My guess is that it will sit paralyzed in my cabinet like it has for the last eight months.
There's a wild turkey outside my window right now with three poults. I wish I was one of them right now.
There's a wild turkey outside my window right now with three poults. I wish I was one of them right now.