Your shoes and your ashes are still in my closet. I can’t stand to get rid of one, and forget the other anytime I go somewhere I think you might want to be. Maybe, you want to be in my closet. Maybe that’s the disconnect. I assume I need something big and you’re just happy hanging there with my holiday sweatshirts and your shoes. I don’t know. I have to guess about these things. The same way I have to try to decipher why I’m not writing anymore. To do this tonight, I had to download the app from the cloud. That’s how long it has been since my feelings came out as words. What does that even mean? I’m pretty sure I’m still feeling. Pretty sure. Not positive. Maybe. I think I am the emotional equivalent of that goo you use to clean in between the letters on your computer keyboard. Just hanging around picking up all the icky little bits that nobody wants to acknowledge. Who wants to write about that? Apparently, not this girl. E asked me the other day what color my hair was before it turned white. I didn’t even get mad. The kid is right. Somewhere, in the past year, I stopped trying to come around the corner quick enough to catch magic. I just accepted it wasn’t there. Bad things are afoot and I don’t know how to fix them. I am up late right now and E, who wants me to pretend to dissect a shark with him, is asking me if I am almost done with my stupid grown-up chaos which is what he calls my tapping on the computer. It’s what I call everything happening in my psyche these days. Stupid, grown-up chaos. However, I am going to wrap this up so I can go dissect this shark with him. Apparently, when we are done, it will also be our dinner with a side of sunflower seeds and a baked potato. I’m hoping it was you that made him choose shark for tonight’s dinner during your beloved Shark Week. Was it?