I am in a spurt of wild creativity, howling out my grief in prose, poetry and song, redemption and release. Today, it’s six months and I am newly heartbroken again. If this continues, I will pull together a book, called I soar, I fall and the words catch me. Grab a tissue.

Small Pleasures

Small pleasures, waking up to a sky of drifting clouds in magical shapes,
Even though you can’t see them.

Small pleasures, getting a fabulous haircut from Alice to feel myself again,
Even though I will never hear you say, “That looks great!”, the way I taught you, our private joke.

Small pleasures, taking a shower to smooth organic sesame oil from Tatiana all over my body,
Even though, afterwards, I will smell like sesame noodles and you would have found that extremely funny.

Small pleasures, singing to Pandora or on a stage or to practice for open mic Mondays at the Thalia,
Even though the words sometimes make me cry and your musical messages annoy me, easy for you to say.

Small pleasures, hanging out with my nephews and nieces, fierce with love for them,
Even though I have bittersweet memories of them watching you paint in Maine, offering up a paintbrush to participate in a few blades of grass.

Small pleasures, being alive to see spring flowers sprout up, hear children’s laughter, smell the complex mystery and magic of the sea, taste a hot toddy before song, touch a friend with love,
Even though, many mornings, I wake up in a panic, looking forward to an endless wasteland of tomorrows, missing you.

Seeking out my small pleasures daily, touching my fingertips to the photo of your face on the fridge when I make my morning coffee,
Now you’re gone.