Thursday, August 13, 2026, 60.2* F, 88% RH, 0734
His hands lingered briefly after he placed a white cloth around my shoulders. I usually wouldn’t remember this much of a dream I woke from yesterday. Bruce often stood behind my chair his hands on my shoulders.
No talking this morning, not even the crow down the road was heard, as if all were still dreaming. Sky trying to be blue but there’s so much white. Sun almost above trees, too high to light curtains. Among the moss, the ferns, red mushrooms.
The things we remember revive connections.
Photo: LJ Austin
