289/365 - 295/365

02.26.11
There is a comfort
climbing back into the swell
of an unmade bed.
•
02.27.11
Earlier today I stubbed my left foot in the door jamb—temporarily I saw stars. Even now my smallest toe throbs softly, reminding me of the clumsy actions of the mid-afternoon.
•
Checked on Brendan before climbing into my own bed. He lies arms tossed to either side, his small mouth mumbling—tongue darting slightly as he sleeps. That wave of parental responsibility washed over, just as any cliché moment, but it drowns so many fears, generates new fears— His left— no right arm uncurled a fist, then recoiled the fingers slightly as I put a blanket over his knees, up to his waist.
•
My ten years long writer’s block must remain away, at a distance. But it hovers, suggestively, flirtatiously. Close.
•
A silence exists
extended, strong, persistent.
Threatening to return.
•
02.28.11
I keep looking for a mystical connection with 11.10.10—the day of Bob's death. More than likely there is no connection. Why would I want there to be one? Bob died. He moved on to the next level. He is beyond me, even more so now.

But I still need to put some words down—acknowledge the knot in my chest.
•
Checked out a new book—
one that will sit by the cot,
waiting to be read.
•
03.01.11
Middle aged woman
stands in her driveway, arms crossed,
glaring at her house.
•
03.02.11
The cat quietly
slips between the cracked doorway,
leaving the bedroom.
•
03.03.11
Dense morning fog clings
close, covering even a
scattered flock of crows.
•
03.04.11
The cat, insistent.
Cries from the foot of the bed.
Demands attention.