Last night’s wood fire still broods, it hangs in the air. I am made older by it, my inability to relate. And the desire to retreat inwards, down a path with no exit and no room to turn around.
It’s always something, some locust or beetle or “killer bees.”
It can be scary for a contractor without the promise of work lined up after you end a gig, like a trapeze artist letting go of one swing and reaching out for the next.
And I just have to think, to consider the amount of loss I’ll feel when everyone is out of the house and it’s just me, positioning things exactly as they should be.
It was like I’d just discovered the scale of life, that there was more of it than I could ever consume.