I went back and reread what I’ve been writing. It’s stark. Honest, but stark.

The problem is, it only shows one thing… my bad days. I don’t tend to write on good days. I write when my soul feels ripped.

The truth is, I am having some good days. Days I’m able to appreciate the beautiful sunsets out here on the hill. And the August heat lightning streaks across the sky. Days when work absorbs me and I feel success at solving problems. Days when I ride so fast with the wind in my hair I almost giggle like a teen. Days when I go out on the boat with Cynthia and Perry and collect beautiful shells and curiosities that float up on the islands.

Some days I even see a future. I envision myself able to sleep at night again. I consider the merits of getting a goat. Or a pot belly pig. Small things but they make me smile.

I do feel progress in healing. And sometimes the good days are marred by hard moments. But those come less frequently than they did in the beginning. Maybe it’s healing, or maybe I’m learning to carry on with the grief tamped down more at some times than others.

I’m still here. I’m still breathing. I’m able to admire the flowers Mama planted for me. I’m proud of the things we’ve done at Memory Hill. I can smile at Dani’s joy and help her name her dolls. I worry over Jeorgia’s struggle with her real estate exam. I worry about Mama needing an outlet for her energy during her Covid lockdown. I worry about Jim trying to move with little help. I worry about Cynthia losing her job at the worst possible time. I worry about Fraya taking care of Covid patients. I worry about Rosemary losing Christina.

I think these are healthy signs. A month ago I didn’t care about anything but me. I feel relieved that I can see a difference in my emotions. Progress feels slow, but I think it’s progress. I’m going to grab onto that with both hands. And try to remember to write on days I feel hope too.

Thank you God for a good day.