From a letter to a friend:
Most days, now, I feel pretty good. I’m happy being back in my old neighborhood where so many of my friends still live. This urban ‘hood is humming with life, and I am sustained by the pulse of the universe it contains, and the genuine human friendliness of everyone I meet – both friend and stranger. What a gift that is.
But then, out of nowhere, that immense grief comes and knocks me down, and I have to sit with it for a while, let it do its time. I hate it.
Clenched, anxious, waiting on courts and banks and funeral homes.
On another note, I had to reroute my pumpkin vines around the fire pit. They seemed inclined to grow directly into-and-over it. Bad pumpkins! Urban gardening, by the square-inch.
And hundreds of tomato blossoms, a dozen or so actual fruits. Sun, wherefore art thou?