Friday, September 5, 2025, 60.8*, 91% RH, 0612
Silver skies amplify shades of gray clouds. Sounding like hummingbird wings, my back support stirs the air, massaging, heating. The three sleep. I shall never be accustomed to Chris’s red truck leaving. When I don’t see it go, which I usually don’t, it is easier to go outside and know things are different, to see the plow, the tractor.
Grief spills its cup into everything. Is that a revelation? I used to think of grief as an avalanche gathering all sad things we’ve hidden. Now I see grief as a cup that keeps refilling, the liquid burning if I move too quickly, if my hands shake, if I don’t pay attention.
It is not the cup of grief refilled; it is the cup of compassion.
Art: LJ Austin “Reflections of Morning” 2022
