And then just like that, the internet is back up with full speed, a week later, much passed, outlook and experiences shattered, the writing becoming more of a reaching inward rather than a reaching out, a woman on a stage behind the curtain, lost in the falling satin, finds herself climbing up instead of crawling out.

I won’t be posting all of what I’ve written at once. I don’t want the last week lost in one stream of consciousness. I might post one or two a day, slowly, to let them sit in a way that they sat for me, hours passing, a white wall or a front window, blinding.

Today is Father’s Day. We’ve come around again, it seems. These last weeks are plagued with a kind of unworldly twist, a sickness of the soul, an eye-opening moment of wonder, filling the lungs with an air laden with more than oxygen.

It started before the blog, you know. The process was not at pen to paper, fingertips to laptop keys. The process was at grief, a new way of seeing, an independence re-established, a concentration fixed anew.

Valentine’s Day. An impact.

a map and compass wrenched away, torn. the umbilical cord finally sliced, floating free through space until I grounded myself again on my birthday between the sun and the snow, in Colorado.

I still miss you, Dad.