The waves are grief catch me unaware, triggered from unexpected outside stimulus. The smell of late fall, the glimpse of an optimistic picture where I do not anticipate it. Julia decorating the white box that houses David's ashes.
But the pit serves me well. My dreams of a wild life, a life of commitment and action, have slowed to an acquiesce of the middle class, middle aged, single mom who can only do what she has been outfitted to do. Who must sit in her box and work within her means.
The grief of the last days was a cold water plunge on that boring, bored spirit.
I can do anything. And that is what I just might do.