It’s morning. I’m quietly sipping coffee, reading a novel that features an ensemble of Victorian era ghosts who hover helplessly perplexed, lovingly hoping the protagonist solves a mystery that left her broken, and from which they seek ephemeral redemption and release.
Prompted by the passage describing a dissembled old long clock, I pause to listen to the tick-tock of my grandmother’s cuckoo clock.
A minute’s reverie back and forth in time, memory and grief, now broken by the call of wild geese just returned, a harbinger of spring.
I remember today is the anniversary of my dear dog’s passing.
I remember I don’t have to walk a hundred miles on my knees to know my place in the family of things. (Thank you, Mary Oliver.)
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I can hardly wait until your book is published as I so want to read it. I wanted to know more about the ghosts and your dog. Thank you.
Thanks, Sharon. Though to clarify, my book has nothing to do with ghosts…dogs, yes…then again, yes some ghosts!
Oh my! I’ve been just realizing, with shock, that it’s just a year since a life changing event of my own – and hadnt yet formulated the term “reverie” as apt! And remembering now that I had no bandwidth to take in your journey of transition with Peggy. Hugs and appreciation for the richness of memories when the acute pain has eased.
What’s the book ? Sounds fascinating !
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The World Before Us…