. . . harvest what light there is

. . .So many posts that will never now be told.  Because when I came to sit down at the desk, finally, late in the evening, I just could never see my way to words.

Too slight a post (such as, say, encouraging letters my old bike wrote me via the freezer and the answering machine, or disquisitions on the proper place of chocolate cake in the Grand Scheme of Things) and I’d be playing the fool at the edges of my dear ones’ grief.

A grief that touched me only glancingly while they were principal mourners.  I only cleaned up around it and supplied the necessary groceries.

Too heavy,  I risked swamping this rackety lifeboat I paddle in.  Because my life at sea has taught me I can’t afford the interest on borrowed sorrow.  . . .

[story: “all the things i’ll never tell you now“]


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