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still a slowing...

I'm in the lonely mode again. The aren't we all alone in the end kind of thinking. The slate grey sky plays host to my haunting thoughts. It compliments and ices over the filling, the layers that ooze. Out beyond the house is the world. Today that world is merely black and white and shades of grey. Lonely. Do we not  all stand alone and separate in the end, joined only briefly, for a time to share. We are black and white photographs, delicately posed, a turn of the head, a smile, a gaze. Oh dear Vibrant house how can I say this. You are so full of togetherness and warmth.  I look at all of you within these walls, laughing and moving, dancing with your long limbs and I want to cry. Dinner table is heavy with left overs from the Easter feast. Cold ham and turkey fill the platters. We toast eachother. Ladles of sweet potatoes glisten and burnish the plates. But we are but briefly here. Like a  soaring bird over the bog, then to fall into nothingness and out of view. A green showing in the vegetable garden gives hope. Tiny bursts of lime green appear on the deep buried onions. The small inconsequentials of my plantings. I study them, diligent, like a hovering mother, watchful of my young. I bend down on my knees in my white cotton nightgown and count the greening. This is what matters to me this day. To see the new. And then it will all come and go along with everything else. Grey sky over there. Grey sky over the roof tops and my mind and all that goes with it. In the greying of my loved ones hair I see the years that have come and gone. He moves slowly, nothing too noticeable but still. Still a slowing. We are all a slowing. 

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Mary P, well stated, but your low mood worries me.

You and your husband might promenade back down to that wine shop today. And there, you might imbibe a bit (and perhaps renew your interest in buying that painting of a lady's naked behind.) Your readership remembers and rejoiced in your soaring mood that day.

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We have to take the good and

We have to take the good and the bad days Dennis.

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Some days are just like

Some days are just like that, Mary.