Mending, mourning.

With a little time and space I can write about this past weekend. I spent most of Sunday mending this poor denim shirt that would probably be happy to retire to the  ragbag. Another pocket repair.

Late Saturday night I found out that an old friend--distant in both time and years--passed away just last week.  I had the choice of believing he died with his family around him, his wife of more than half his life holding his hand, or the terrible alternative of our current experience.

This sad news, missing my own distant family and friends, cut off from those who live close by--all stewed together to drop me into a well of misery. Arms length, I know I was grieving for everything all at once.

I let the sadness have its way, gave it space to thrash and moan until it was exhausted like an overtired toddler.

Now, there's laundry. Dishes to wash, rugs that need vacuuming. A work schedule that has to be adhered to (in gratitude that I still have a job and income). Best, there is cloth, thread and dye to use up and stories to work on.

Provincetown, Cape Cod. '69