good morning

I am writing with a blue pen that used to belong to my grandma and aching with every stroke of ink. My fingerprints are overtaking hers on the plastic barrel; my grad school jottings are teaching the tip a new rhythm; my straight-up-and-down hybrid handwriting is encouraging the pen to forget her proper slanted script. And this is the lesson: we must carry on with our tasks and our days, aching as we go.

Grief like this is new to me. But yesterday held moments of kindness--surprise hugs from friends, and running into another at a cold bus stop, and being welcomed and bid farewell by the bus driver with the words, "Well, young lady." Also: breakfast for dinner, the return of familiar and exciting ideas, and flannel sheets.

And today holds moments to anticipate: a promising interdisciplinary discussion this afternoon; coffee; poetry; and a quiet evening with the bleary-eyed Josh, conqueror of yet another all-nighter. Plus sunshine and cold that bites one's nose.

These are the bits of good that join to make a real and full day, even when the day is underpinned by sorrow. And I suppose this is the human experience: we live in between the two.