Posthumous Valentine

This morning I made a curtain and this afternoon beef stew.

I feel happy making things.  Content, at ease.  Creative.  Like the inside of myself is showing.

I also took a walk and was chased by a dog with one of those boxes on his collar that jolted him beyond his yard.  He was a big black barking thing, but I felt sad for his plight.

I also went to the store for more of the same.  Pretty much always the same.

We got a valentine in the mail from my 92 year old grandpa today, which was also signed by our beloved Granny Z who just passed away last week and was buried two days ago.  It had a big tear in the envelope, and I guess the mailman must have lost it because it's postmarked 2/12.  She signed it because she was sitting at the same table as my grandpa while he was filling out valentines... they were at the same nursing home, and it's entirely true that this is possibly the last thing she ever wrote.  She signed a very shaky Granny.

I'm choking up.  It's so precious it's like it's glowing and hot with holy fire, or something. It has to be a gift, don't you think?  From beyond, or above, or the cosmos...

We are the special ones, aren't we.

It's almost strange, if you don't know that it was probably always meant to be this way.

We held each other and wept for her all night long that night.  We watched an old home movie at 1am on a Thursday, and looked at photos after.  And we understood what no one else can.

There's a tighter knot to hold onto now.