Almost imperceptibly the early mornings are becoming darker. At 5 a.m., I turn on a lamp and peer into a garden of shadows. A robin sings andante. Heavy air leans a cheek against the open windows.

Last night I slept, really slept, for the first time in more than a week. Writing Ruckus's obituary was a help in that regard, as I knew it would be. When I sent copies to my sons, both were relieved--not just because they were pleased with what I had said but because they knew that framing words around his death would carry me forward.

I wrote the obituary, and then I reread it about a hundred times, off and on throughout the day. That, too, was helpful. Ruckus has entered the land of legend. When the new stories end, the old stories step into their power.

So this morning I feel ready to turn to other responsibilities: post-conference paperwork, unpacking books,  catching up on housework. Because of my state of mind--because I had to compartmentalize my grief so strictly last week--I couldn't keep you apprised of how well the conference was going. In truth, it was transformative. Bringing in Gretchen and Gwyneth, expanding our learning into body-thought, had a tremendous influence on the collaborative projects that the participants created. I heard new freedoms in their poem drafts, in their conversations. I felt these new freedoms in myself and in the collaborative lessons that Teresa and I were constructing on the fly. We left the conference with a great sense of anticipation.

I don't know what will happen next year in Monson. But I am already excited.

On Thursday evening Tom and I will fly to Chicago to spend a few days with our beloveds. Given our newly lonely household, the timing is good, despite the breathlessness of shifting so quickly from one sort of travel to another. In the meantime, I will try to learn to be without my dear little noisemaker. I will try to look inside myself, outside myself. The days march on.

* * *

During the conference, I received notification that one of my essays appears in Vox Populi's list of most-read works. I wrote this piece quite a while ago, when my younger son was still in high school. It was strange to revisit it.