What have I done since I used to post so often in this journal?
Have I lived many lives since then, or just one life spinning out, seeming more impossible when viewed as a whole than when lived in little parts?
I have purchased a great deal of food, hefting oranges to check for juice, comparing cheeses. I have chopped and peeled. I have blended and sauteed and rendered and seasoned. I have arranged on plates.
I have wiped and washed and dried and put away the things that constitute a home, the glasses and socks, the bowls and towels.
I have sat at many tables and desks, talking earnestly and listening to others talking earnestly. Earnestly, but with a dollop of irony.
I have walked many kilometres of concrete.
I have ridden the ferry often. I know those vinyl seats, those cold handrails, the side-to-side of the whole enterprise.
I have read many words and written some too. Words seemingly in ever possible arrangement, except with words, there is always another arrangement, and another and another. There is no "every."
I have seen seasons wax and wane, as spring is now waxing, with its first nubbly stems and its birches whitening against the fronded evergreens, its curled crocuses cold in the grass's velvet, the sky lingering later each day, turning to look over its shoulder, not quite ready to go.
I have cried many tears, with others and alone, but mostly alone. I have also laughed, for this is also part of living.