My grandfather is the first that I have loved who is dead.
The grief is not about a violent outburst of tears and catharsis. It is an ache that persists because I keep on not seeing him, he keeps not opening the door and coming in.
So every picture of him gives me pause, makes me reach out to touch it in hopes of touching him. It’s a useless and instinctive gesture, like most reactions to the dead.
It’s been a year since I started this notebook.
Currently lying about 10 inches from water that slaps the pier and makes it groan. It sways, rises, falls to the rhythm of the lake as the sun burns down and bleaches the old wood, as every time the wake of a boat disturbs the water that the pier floats on, it moves in a faster louder tempo.
So many dreams.
I remember when I was here two years ago, how painfully self-conscious I was, how I wrote in a journal in hopes of a boy waiter with a ring on his thumb reading it. I didn’t realize how depressed I was back then. I didn’t realize how much of it was growing pains.
Things that I want to tell you
how I saw a deer and how every time I see one it is a sign of something divine, something strange and rare and graceful.
how i walked over a log and didn’t fall, and the strange joy afterwards.
how I miss my grandfather
how I miss you
what does otiose mean? [futile]