Empty

After a week of writing about the passing of devoted, treasured Thorbert, we are a tad wrung out and mostly out of words.  The searing sorrow of his death has subsided into an intermittent, oscillating bereavement.  A stark grief still inhabits the shadows, oftentimes seeming to take the form of an ottoman-shaped dog out of the corner of one's eye, only to be revealed upon full inspection to be naught but a bicycle helmet or a bunched-up blanket.

Nevertheless, we're not overwhelmed by sadness.  We are learning to live with his absence. Slowly.  It's a bit difficult to return to the minutiae of life after having delved rather deeply into the occurrence of death. Return we must, in time.

In the erstwhile, though, we might be a tiny bit quiet here. Or not - one never knows exactly when inspiration for detailed composition will arrive.  We hope that it may be soon. There is always comfort to be found in words.

Tomorrow may be hell, but today was a good writing day, and on the good writing days nothing else matters. ― Neil Gaiman

Picture copyright 2012, 2013, Mediocria Firma. Used with gratitude.