Still trying to snap out of the end of summer blues. I’m getting there, but still grieving. Emily and I took a walk down a trail in the woods that we heard lead to a creek farther in. Not bad, but the dog got covered in burrs, which I chopped out of his fur with scissors. Now he’s all choppy looking. Could not find the creek: we ended up coming out into an open field near the used car lot just down the highway from us.
I can at least say I got myself out of the house. Later I read on the swing in my back yard. Earlier this summer, even though it has a canopy overhead, I parked the swing under an apple tree for some added shade. It was nice reading outside today, warm and breezy, and I’m loving the book I’m reading: Plainsong. But the apples are ripening and crashing down on the canopy just above my head, occasionally scaring the shit out of me. They crash down hard. And now rotting apples are collecting on the ground, and if I walk out with bare feet, they squash underfoot. I may have to move the swing.
This winter, the deer will come and eat the apples out from under the snow. Cola will try to chase them because he is too dumb to understand he can’t catch a deer.
There are five stages of grief, and I can’t remember them all for sure. Denial, acceptance, bargaining. . what else? So, I jumped right into acceptance today, or maybe yesterday, and realized I must have been in denial because I kept working my way back toward bargaining. I’m such a pussy. My guess is that means I’m somewhere between stage one and five.
But everything will be alright (rockabye), as long as the sun shines once in a while and you have a swing in your back yard. And a good book. I’ll grieve when that’s over.



