I’m sorry. What was his name?
This is a pretty new addition to common responses to loss. We’re learning more about grief every day.
I like this for us.
I much prefer it to asking how he died, or how old he was, or any of the questions I got regularly in the first few years.
But, it’s complicated.
Telling people Dave was named Dave isn’t all the way true, is it?
Today I opened up my memory box, to add in a few more things that I’m ready to safekeep out-of-view. Inside, I found a Batman statuette that Dave made for Matticus. I’ve had it in a little box to repair for sometime, but just haven’t had the heart to do any work on it.
I looked more carefully at it, today, though. It’s been so many years. I turned it upside down and saw the name written across the bottom.
I rarely say it anymore. I rarely see it anymore. I haven’t traced his handwriting in years and I found myself a little lost in it.
Not the grief, exactly, but the nostalgia. The past flooded the ramparts of my life now. It wet the rugs, bent the moulding, soaked my toes to the wrinkling point.
Human toes wrinkle as we become less waterproof. I heard once that they wrinkle so we have a chance of holding on anyway.
We can be the flood, and the flooded, and the waterproofed, and the sandbag, all at once.
I like this for us.
rarasaur 
Silver Star.
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Exactly so. 💕💫
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💕
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💕💫
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So many feelings and thoughts. I can’t possibly articulate them in any reasonable way. So here is a bucketload of love instead.
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And that’s what matters. ❤️&🫂’s
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♥️✨♥️
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We’re complicated beings for sure. The flood and the flooded, indeed. Happy Saturday. Have a lovely weekend.
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🫂
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Hugs, my dinosaur friend.
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I’m tempted to take off my socks and check. Nahhh… I gotta be strong. You, too. Hang in there, see? 👍😊
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Darn! This is intense!
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Thud. 💜
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Good heavens, your writing stirs things in my heart like very few other writings can. You’ve got access to truths on tap: sweet truths; sour truths; condensed truths; seemingly contradictory truths that are, nonetheless, true at once. I am, as ever, grateful for your words and that you share these truths freely with the world. All would be served to know about Rarasaur–if your name would come up among aspirations in work meetings, on reports of news worth celebrating, as an adjective to describe what it feels like to hold a sleeping puppy, as a way of describing the capacity to be fully present with eyes wide open while the sunrise broadcasts its technicolor energy. If it should be so, I will like that world even more than this one.
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