What do you do when time behaves like a rascal, defiant and disobedient? What day is it? What month? How long has Danny been dead? 

Time always slips around some, but in acute grief it stretches and compresses like an unruly adversary — another aspect of loss.

Today is the four-month anniversary of Danny’s death. Ken and I find ourselves flummoxed. We seesaw from wondering how it can be only four months to wondering how it’s already been a quarter of a year.

I didn’t think this was a significant anniversary, but the amount of weeping I’ve done today tells a different story. 

Last night, I tossed and turned and dreamt about Mick Jagger. Nonsense, really. I was in the kitchen and something frustrated me and I pushed some objects violently aside. Mick Jagger said, “You’ll never be president.”

Why would I want to be president and why is Mick Jagger in my kitchen, judging me?

We saw him in the stands of the England/Argentina game, of course. 

I don’t know enough about soccer to have an opinion, but boy are people mad on Threads. Many think that Argentina was afforded every advantage in ways both obvious and unfair. I don’t know. I just know that when the games end, there will be a space that needs filling.

Hand-wringing returned. Yesterday I kept imagining calling 911 that final night. I hear myself whispering that they shouldn’t use their siren and that they should approach the apartment quietly. And then I imagine announcing to a furious Danny that I couldn’t let him throw his life away.

You don’t have to chime in about culpability or whether such an intervention would’ve worked, even for the short term.

I know. I know. I think I know?

Last week, I met with a friend whose child has made more than five attempts on their life. This mother, my friend, shared that both times they institutionalized her daughter, it made things worse.

There’s so much suffering in the world.

The rabbits eat at a furious clip this summer. It’s hard to watch my ferns drying up in the heat and the hosta being devoured by those cute little fuckers. More death.

Our corrupt dipshit of a president plans to address the nation tonight. I’ll admit to being on edge, even though sane commentators say, Calm down. The federal government doesn’t control elections. He can say whatever he wants and it doesn’t mean he has the power to do what he says.

There are many things that I wish I believed.

Meanwhile, the upside of this diarrhea lettuce outbreak is that we have twice recently shopped for local produce.

I got some gorgeous onions that the bagger said you could bite right into they’re so sweet. And look at these beauties below!

For dinner, we’re gonna have an onion, goat cheese, burrata, ham, and asparagus tart.

Yum. Can’t wait.