These leaves, this fog, my tears — you do not see them.

The soft push of air out my nose, a cardinal chipping at the morning, the crunch of gravel when I get up and walk back into another day without you— you do not hear.

You do not see. You do not hear.

Cars passing, sports commentary, “Can I have another cup of coffee?” — these sounds belong to the land of the living where you no longer dwell.

You no longer dwell. You are no longer.

Yesterday marked three months.

My phone taunted me.

My heart broke (again).

Big outdoor market was first up. With Juneteenth celebrations on the schedule, sweet potato pie on the menu, and lots of tables packed with wares, it was fun. Hot, but fun. I bought a felted kitty pin (don’t ask me why).

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Noted trend: many booths were selling upcycled jackets and oxford shirts. The garments were cut at the waist and featured roughly stitched-on patches — some ink-stamped, some photo-transferred.

Inspired, I’ll probably take some shears to a shirt or two when I get home.

But! None of the vendors hemmed the bottom edges. They were just cut, threads left hanging. I’m old-fashioned enough to find that unfinished look unappealing.

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Before heading home — most unexpected and thrilling of all — we met up with Glennis Dolce of Shibori Girl Studios. The meeting was one of those unforeseen bonuses of blogging (she left me a comment with an address and invite yesterday).

I took an online indigo-dyeing workshop with Glennis probably 15 years ago and have loved her ribbons, moons, and floral pins for a long time. She’s a dedicated artist with deep ties to Japan.

We met up in the basement of a Buddhist Temple where the second day of one of her indigo workshops was in progress. The results and the samples and the focus were all notable and inspiring. But most of all, it was gratifying to meet a fiber artist I’ve long-admired in the flesh. Hello Glennis!

Glennis was sweet enough to plug my book when she introduced me and one participant ordered it on the spot. She might recommend it to her book club. Yeah!

(Last two images from this morning, not yesterday).

Mindless sewing is sometimes a good thing. That small rectangle (upper left, featuring a threadcrumb shop moon) is purely decorative and I don’t mind.

Do you see that hummingbird?

Yesterday, while standing under Billy’s ficus tree to take this picture, a peregrine falcon burst out of the branches not five feet above my head. Wow. I’d been looking for it. In years past, it’s visited the edge of the hot tub and waded in the overflow.

Today we’re headed to a huge flea market near Hollywood and then maybe over to Griffith Park.

“More Americans are afraid of running out of money than they are of dying.” Just heard on Jacob Soboroff’s new morning show. This weekend promises to be a vulgar horror show. But! Over on Threads, I’ve saved lots of reels of New Yorkers celebrating the Knicks’ win and lots of reels of the joyful, rowdy Tartan Army invading Boston. Necessary cheer.

Context: Written 6/11/26 the day after we arrived in Los Angeles. In December of last year, we flew Danny out and met at LAX and spent many days together at my brother’s.

Prompt: “It was supposed to be fun…”

Retirement was supposed to be fun, or at least fun–adjacent. Relaxing, self-paced, marked only by travel complications and joint pain.

Not this.

It was supposed to be a time to clean out attic and garage, tend the garden, meet up with friends for a matinee.

Not this.

This time was supposed to be anticipatory in two directions — death, yes death, ahead on one side, an unavoidable tally of years but birth on the other, grandchildren, babies coming into the world.

Not this.

We flew over Colorado and I cried. We flew over the Nevada desert and I looked out the window wondering if he’d looked at the same on his last flight west. (His last flight west).

We landed at LAX. I held back tears at baggage claim because the last time I waited for a bag, we were also waiting for Danny’s flight to land. I cried on the way to the Uber pick up area — just folded like a hinge, put my head on my bag near the handle, and cried. Ken didn’t notice. He was so intent on getting to the pick up area which is, I swear, a mile from the terminal.

Later, we picked up Danny’s car from his brother’s and I cried. I sat on the seat where we’d found the box of bullets, an impossible recollection. I looked at the dusty dashboard and asserted, “Danny wouldn’t have let his car get this dirty.” We agreed on that point.

Now, the rejiggering retrospective includes highlights of a long and slow retreat. Did we even talk in the backyard that time, I wonder? Did we talk during that meal or that walk? My memory is poor, but my son’s silences grew to be pretty constant, epic even.

I write letters to Danny almost every day now. Yesterday I asked, “What happened to that joyfully kinetic, friend-loving guy?” Always there’d been fear and panic, doubt and worry, but always that negativity had been braided with the antics and cheer of an outgoing affectionate imp. Where did he go?

And now I recall a visit ago, let’s call it a penultimate visit (a penultimate visit), asking this very question “You’re so tamped down, Danny. Where did that more cheerful guy go?”

There was no answer. He had no answer.

The “what-if’s” take a break for a week and then storm back with a fury.

What if early on I pulled him out of the public schools? Or what if later on, I’d temporarily moved to Boulder to arrange proper psychiatric care? What else did I have to do?

All the interventions were so incremental, band-aids or suggestions of help, not lasting, meaningful help. Why didn’t I treat the situation years ago as a full-blown life or death crisis, which it was. It always was, as it turns out, a life or death crisis.

Reminiscing was supposed to be, if not fun then at least marked by a bittersweet nostalgia – an annoying echo of a Raffi song or a shrug of a memory at being beyond tired but going to Drumlin Farm anyway.

Not this.

Every counter and table is now covered with nails pointed upward ready to wound. Every floor is puddled with black grease ready to cause a slip and a fall. Every shelf is loaded with regret. Dodging the dangers makes one tired. There are retreats, but no actual respite and if I’m to believe half of what I read, there never will be. There is no getting over this. There’s no getting around this, this loss, this grief. Ever.

Update on visit: California weather does not disappoint. Billy is doing well. Lila is fine too except for a prolonged panic attack yesterday when a neighbor’s shrill and piercing alarm went on for hours. Poor thing. We finally gave her a trazadone.

I’m so grateful that I was here in this sports-loving household the night of the Knicks game because it meant I watched every minute of it. Wow!

To just see the comeback in the final quarter would’ve meant so much less without weathering the quarters where the Knicks were losing by a lot.

Also of course we watched the first U.S. Men’s soccer game which as it turns out was played here in LA. Also a gratifying win.

Today? Cary and his girlfriend visit. I’ve already made cold cucumber soup.

And perhaps, a dip in the pool!

Will spring in all its heady flourishing from here on out remind me of this season of sorrow?

Next year when the peony buds unfist and open and droop under the weight of their beauty, will they force a count — another year without Danny?

My neighbor paused on her way out for a walk recently to tell me that this plaster figure reminds her of Danny. I had always thought of it as female, but now I see it. I see him.

Speaking of the dead, take a look at the sweet little blue flowers of the forget-me-not. Like so many plants in the garden, they tell a story.

After my mother died, I dug up a couple of healthy clumps of forget-me-nots from her yard and planted them out front. With a name like theirs, I thought them a perfect memento — until they all disappeared, that is. They lasted two seasons, maybe.

My mother died in 1996 which means I counted the forget-me-nots as a loss in 1998. So imagine my surprise when this spring, some 28 years later, a brave and lovely forget-me-not showed up among the astilbe.

How does nature do things like this?

With a sense of wonder and gratitude, I moved the little clump to where it would have more room. It lives under the golden chain tree now.

Hi Mom.

We fly to California tomorrow. Since about February, I’ve often been waking between five and six a.m. It’s 5:31 as I type right now. You know what that means, don’t you? In Los Angeles I’ll be waking between 2:00 and 3:00 for at least for a handful of days.

No matter. I can’t wait to see Billy and Cary and the dog Lila and to dwell for a while in that beautiful California light.