I’m trying. I really am. Every morning I get up. I brush my teeth. I put on my face. I frown at CNN. I tug on clothing. I drive Johnny Handsome to the train station. I get coffee from a drive thru window, every day vowing that next week I will start making coffee at home, will save both money and the environmental cost of going through a drive thru, drinking from a disposable cup. Every day I walk Finny. Every day I fall more in love with my dog, my park. Every day I tote up the lists of things I should have done eons ago and every day I fall more behind myself.
Every day I wonder where the time went. Every day I try to claw it back, claw it all back. There should have been more time. There is never enough time.
The park. It is where I feel closest to her, closest to the self I used to be, closer to the self I yearn to be now.
Every day there is some new marvel, some new reason to be grateful. The smell of fallen pine needles, crushing softly underfoot. The crimson bloom on a fallen apple, the way it contrasts against yellow leaves. Thirty blue jays, at least that many, startled at once, a blue squalling rush bursting from the autumn flamed brush. The light coming all sherbet colored through the leaves, palest pink and raspberry, tangerine and lemon. The tender ruin of ferns, curling upon themselves, bronzed with age and the summer now past.
I’m trying. I am. I’m trying as hard as I can.