mixed.

Our dog was up all night, restless, growling at something outside, laying his head on the bed and wagging his tail hard enough to shake the cats off, hoping that would wake me up. We walked at 2 am under cloudy skies, no sign of whatever he saw scratching around in the brush.  It is mid-february and 49 degrees, the daffodils are up, there are bug hatches and insectivores easily a month ahead of normal times. I spend my mornings dressing horses and collecting eggs. I see at least one hawk a day. Some part of me has turned towards a new adventure, and while it is not yet time to go, I can feel the traveling bone, the hobo gene as Jake called it yesterday.

Boris and I will have to see a surgeon soon about his injury, and he limps on his left front now too. The cyst that showed up soon after you left is larger now, and I wonder if it is messing with that leg, making him hobble up the steps. Your son told me how he wakes up sometimes expecting to be in his old room in our house, how it takes him a minute to realize he is not, and another to realize why. We talk about the sucker punch, how often it comes, how stunning and how hard. He has the closest thing to tears in his eyes as he ever has, which is almost none. I stand in the horse stable sobbing, yelling to nobody that this isn't right, that I don't understand. This is our anniversary week, the days of seven years ago laid over the events of 2 years, 7 months, and one week ago - both ending on sunday. I would do it all again, every second. I know you know I would. I don't know that you would let me, but that is how I roll. That is how I love.

There are hawks and horses and traveling bones, sore dogs who make me worry. There are new adventures which make me wonder if I will find you more in them, feel you more in them, as I am more like me. It's a mixed bag all this. I miss you. I miss you very much. Happy anniversary my love. I miss you very much.




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