The Old Village

Well I couldn't tell you where January went. Or December, for that matter. But suddenly it's five in the afternoon and not dark anymore and the mound has all but settled. There are daffodil shoots in the garden and a new phase of missing begins to take shape.

There is still a flat cap on a hook in the kitchen. There are shoes. And there is still an office chair keeping watch at the end of the bed. Nobody uses the back door anymore, and, in the driveway, too close to the wall on the passenger side, there is a gold Rover 25.

There has been no dream yet. Lots of people have said there will be a dream.

Baby steps. Slowly does it.