Yesterday I remembered there's a novel to be revised - and was a little in wonder, recalling how well things were going so soon before Siddy succumbed to illness. I covered only three pages, and I'm honestly unsure whether the word count went down, or possibly even up, and I am too lazy to pull out the external drive and even open the lousy thing to be sure. But I worked on it.
I also found a beautiful plant, from the nursery where my brother worked way back during The Reagan Years. It is brightly yellow, deeply green, copiously thick, and has leaves at its base of the most shocking, beautiful black and red. It is strikingly beautiful as she always was. It is alive, and it lives where her bed sat.
Last night, my friend B came over with her daughter, and we enjoyed comfort food, "Blackadder" (the Third - the daughter's first experience of Hugh Laurie outside of "House"), and a bit of Eddie Izzard. We were together until two a.m., and they were so generous and such wonderful company.
Today ... I clean house. It's stupid and self-indulgent, but I hate to clean up all her fur. But I do need the act of worship which is the maintenance of my hearth and home, the chief blessing I have had which is not Siddy. I need the peace of this place, clean, beautiful, and ... quiet. Too quiet.
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