While walking the dog, I am thinking about all the things I am never going to do again. Every evening, as the the clouds are turning orange, tears: This is so beautiful and I’m not ever going to watch a sunset with J— again. I’m never going to wake up in the wilderness as the sun is rising and say “good morning”. We will never lie on our backs and look at stars and the moon. No more sweet silence. We will never go as far out as possible together and see things most people won’t.
I do not, cannot stop myself. Grief. My body trembles for weeks. My hands shake and I cannot eat without effort. Who am I? I have to keep walking, that is all I know.
One day I look up and the sky is deep cornflower blue, chalky, like a fresco, and to the west it is pink and orange. The grasses on the mesa, slowly, almost timelessly shifting from gold-pink to pale luminescent violet, finally bleaching out to soft blue-white and then, dark. The air is cool and clean, so pure and fresh that to breathe is soothing. I’m OK. I love this. I love my life this minute. While I’d like to be sharing this moment marveling at the beauty of the world—this is pretty damn good. This is pretty damn good.
So much beauty in this world. Even in the sadness.