Thanksgiving
Yesterday was my birthday, and we celebrated in style--Thanksgiving breakfast, Thanksgiving dinner, Thanksgiving issue of the newspaper with my grandmother's obituary and the report on my long-missing friend's discovery. Anything involving dental records is not good.
Ordinarily I'd wax poetic on being a year older, reflecting on this year's struggles and triumphs. My thankfulness at having a wonderful family and terrific friends. We're all hurting at the moment, all trying to go on with business as usual.
I planted a mess of bulbs yesterday, digging into the sod behind my house, pouring in bulb food, covering the tiny globes with rich dirt. I bought yesterday's paper. I'll use it to line the edges of that garden, to block weeds and allow moisture through. Cover it with mulch and it will become part of the earth itself. I can think of few better small tributes to two people who meant a great deal to me.
A couple of our dear friends came over last night to distract us with wine and Guitar Hero III. They brought the mead we'd gifted them with at their wedding--and the news that they'd found footage of him playing the guitar at her birthday celebration early this year. We did not watch it, not together, not yet, but knowing it's there is a comfort. Knowing--at all--is a comfort. I guess.