There is rain falling on the ash in my parent's fireplace. Something about that soft conclusion to each drop's flight from the heavens makes me not want to stand up and close the flume.

Also, I've decided just now ( as I have been known to do in the past ) that there is value for me in recording thoughts, on staring at the words that they have to fit into, awkward though that process may be. Once a month or so is not enough.

I'd honestly rather not spend time in front of a screen, and often when I sit down to start something, I decide it's probably not the best use of time. That there are at least 17 other things I should be doing at that particular moment.

But too much is gone.

Bath times with bubbles and plastic horses, books that forced me to pause and think "I will never be the same again", strangers made friends, chilly walks taken, salty pillows.

Nothing to document how it smelled. Or looked. Or how it changed or rearranged me.

And.

I'd like to remember the following sunny moments, at this moment.