Tag Archives: life

In The Presence Of Company And Snacks

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What has the post-‘rona world wrought? People connecting. Hell yeah.

Patricia Marx in The New Yorker:

“When my editor asked whether I’d be interested in writing about the growing trend of friends getting together to tackle to-do lists, I thought, “Sounds about as fun as a group root canal.” I e-mailed back, “YES!” It was February; I hate the cold; the research would take place indoors. Also, I figured, it might take a village to make me get that comptroller form notarized, memorize the map of South America (don’t ask), and write my will—an item on my list for eighteen years. (As for to-do-list items that never die, thirty-three years ago, the agenda of a friend of mine included: No. 1, get my figure back; No. 2, dance lessons . . . No. 8, figure out if I should break up with Tim; No. 9, leave Tim. Not his real name, because my friend is still wondering about divorcing him.)

Everyone, it turns out, has a lot of shit to do, and many find the drudgery easier to slog through in the presence of company and snacks. Over the course of two months, I sat in on eight Admin Nights, as these gatherings are often called. (“Are they, like, fossils of extinct mollusks?” a hedge-fund guy at a dinner party asked me, thinking of ammonites.) There was a meetup of young mothers who had a lot of children’s birthday parties to organize, a group of Gen Z-ers whose morning session had a live soundtrack provided by a d.j., and a group of people with A.D.H.D., based mostly in Australia, who meet regularly on Zoom. At the Women in Games get-together, a seven-year-old attendee, brought by her mother, marvelled that grownups have homework, too.”

This morning, on the way to Masters swim practice at the Y, I saw three women running shoulder to shoulder on the Henderson Rd sidewalk by Olympia High School. They were not fast, at all, but that’s irrelevant. They had found each other, agreed to meet up, and were clearly vibbing, talking through who knows what. Simultaneously improving their physical and mental health.

And props for your introverted humble blogger for livening up Masters by asking the women in Lane 3, “Do you know the Masters swim team secret?” Looking perplexed, they repeated, “Masters swim team secret?” “Yeah, this lane has the best technique.” They were touched and proudly added their lane was also the most jovial. Five women connected, happier together, living fully.

Maybe I shoulda started this out by writing . . . some people connecting. Social anxiety shows no sign of abating. And we’re way less likely to see our lonely, socially anxious neighbors struggling to find connection. Because often, they can’t even leave their homes.

Here’s to celebrating connection while continuously extending the circles of friendship we’re lucky enough to enjoy.

On The Sidewalk Ramp Above Deschutes Parkway

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Last night I went for a beautiful sunset run. West Bay, Tugboat Annie’s flyby, and back to Cap Lake for a short out and back. I unplugged and started walking at the base of the sidewalk ramp beside the Fifth Street Bridge. And that’s where our story begins. A story I could use your help processing.

Halfway up the first switchback, just above Deschutes Parkway, a women was lying on a blanket seemingly going through her bedtime routine. All sorts of accessories were spread across her blanket which covered the entire width of the sidewalk. As I approached, she said, “You can go around the other way.” Haha, I thought to myself, I’m not taking the unnecessarily long route tonight.

So your intrepid reporter stepped over and around her with one of my dogs landing smack dab on her blanky. Which set her off a bit. “I’m going to say you raped me.” Unable to process that, I kept walking. And then, “Faggot.” That got me to u-turn and engage. Feel free to deduct points at this point.

What I should’ve said is “Homophobic much?” Instead, I asked a question, “Why don’t you think people should be able to walk on this public sidewalk?” Brown skinned, maybe even indigenous, she said, “Because it’s my land.” To which I said, “Well, thank you for letting me use it tonight.” Close curtains.

Come on, you have to give me back the points you previously deducted for the smoothish ending.

This story is either a run-of-the-mill anecdote or an important case study about class differences, urban life, and how we will or won’t get along. Or something in between, I’m not sure.

The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t know my neighbor’s story. Nothing could explain away what she said, but I’m disinclined to castigate her more generally for being troubled and impoverished since I have no idea how she ended up going to sleep on the sidewalk ramp above Deschutes Parkway.

How Am I?

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Three weeks after ejecting from my roadbike and skimming across Center Street, I feel somewhere between two-thirds to three-fourths of the way back depending upon how much I’m asking of my bod. I don’t cry when choking on pistachios anymore. And I’m walking a lot, cycling a little, and I ran all of two miles yesterday even though I couldn’t breath very deeply at all. And I’m hoping to get the gills wet Monday at Masters swimming. Thanks to everyone who has checked in. Your texts and calls have meant a lot. They have made me feel a lot less alone.

More importantly, how is my soul five months after Lynn’s passing?

The second hardest adjustment has been the near complete loss of the connectedness to everyone who showed up for Lynn so consistently until the very end. Everyone, of course, quickly returned to their normal lives. I understand that, but it has still been disorienting. The house is so dang quiet.

However, the single hardest adjustment has been the loss of Lynn’s constant love, which as it turns out, I grew more dependent upon than I realized. As an introvert who digs solitude, I always fancied myself as fairly independent and resilient. LOL. In the immediate aftermath of her dying, I felt like the guy in the opening of MadMen.

Despite MSA’s slow motion devastation, I was unprepared for what, at the very end, felt like the pulling of a trap door. Which compelled me, two months ago, to go on a couple of dates which really upset my daughters whose well-being is as important to me as my own. And so now, as a result, I am disconnected from them. So disconnectedness upon disconnectedness.

Within that larger context, there have been what we in the Pacific Northwest call “sunbreaks”. Moments in the week, when the clouds separate just enough for warm, healing light to briefly shine through. When Steve calls during one of his Camino training walks to see how I’m doing. When Kevin calls. When MARN calls. When Lou, from high school, reaches out. When Mark invites me to walk. When Kris reaches out and comes over and listens to me ramble like the wonderful counselor she is. When Lil’ Chris sends a heartfelt card and note and invitation to a community event. When the college roommates write to see how we’re doing. When Marybeth sends this card.

Damn, that’s what everyone said, “I’m so happy I met Lynn.” I miss the KChrises, the roommates, Marybeth. Lynn’s people.

More sunshine than a sunbreak, I am not dating anymore because I’ve met someone special. Someone incredibly sensitive to my grieving and the family’s. Someone who watched Lynn’s memorial service on YouTube and said, “I wish I had known her.” Someone who gives me confidence that I will be alright. Especially when my daughters can accept my free falling self and we reconnect.

Sunday, Mother’s Day will be especially hard for A and J. Here’s what I want them to know. I turned on Lynn’s phone recently and there were 99 text messages. One dated 12/16/25, the day after she died, was piercing. Lisa, her boxing coach texted, “I love you Lynn. No more pain. Rest in peace.” Followed by a purple heart and strong arm emoji.

I want them to find solace in their mom’s legacy. So many people loved her. So deeply. We were very fortunate to be among them for as long as we were.

With Apologies To My Sissy

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Who often reminds me, as only a loving big sissy can, “It’s not all about you, Ron.” But this post might be. 😜

A subset of humble blog readers, who also happen to be personal friends, have reached out to see how I’m doing post bike accident. Which I’ve greatly appreciated. Here’s more than they, and you, prob wanna know. If my sissy has read this far, she’s rolling her eyes.

Five of us were enjoying a truly beautiful spring day, sunny, 50’s, meaning built-in air conditioning. In a pace-line, we were two hours into a two hour and twenty minute ride, baring down on Tumwater High School at 20-22mph thanks to a slight tailwind.

I was fifth of five. The lead rider, who has been relegated to Witness Protection, did not point out a small, but deep divot in the road. Remember sports fans, whenever you’re on the front, your main responsibility is to the be the eyes for the whole train. Rider number four hit the devilish divit head on, and as a result, slowed quite a bit. I was sitting my customary three feet behind him and didn’t have enough time to avoid riding into his back wheel. At the last fraction of a second, I turned my wheel to avoid his, but all that did was create an angle that launched me dead left into and across the center of the road. Picture a rock skimming across a glassy pond.

My skimming across the pavement happened right in front of a kind and caring woman on the way to work. Had she left for work 20-30 seconds earlier she very well could’ve ran over me. She checked on me and called it in while my friends looped back to provide additional/wonderful support. Soon, a bevy of young male firefighters began asking me questions and poking and prodding me. If I was gay, I would’ve immediately started feeling better. They asked me who the President was, and I said, “Oh man, I feel badly enough already.”

My friends studied my helmet and saw that there were no scratches and so everyone knew my compromised cognition was just my normal state of being. While I was sliding across the road, I was sure I’d broken my collar bone or hip or both. When I came to a stop and was able to sit up and eventually get to the side of the road, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that apart from road rash on my right shoulder, elbow, and knee, all the damage was confined to my right rib cage. Which hurt like a motherfecker.

The fire boys recommended I go to the hospital for a more thorough eval, but they have to say that, right? One also stated with a wink what all my cycling friends and I already know from experience, there’s absolutely nothing they can do for broken ribs.

Meanwhile my friends were putting my chain back on and checking out CanRon, the name of my newish whip, which remarkably, was almost entirely unscathed, maybe because it first bounced off me instead of the road.

Then, I somehow rode it home chapperoned by the team until we got to Deschutes Falls Park and then BC rode with me all the way into the garage atop the Fifth Street Bridge. There’s only two explanations for how I made it home under my own power. Stupidity and adrenaline.

The first night was scary. I had help at dinner, but afterwards, when alone, I was unable to move. I could hear my ribs rattling when breathing, which was even painful. My doc cycling friend who fancies himself a comedian, advised, “Just don’t move or breath.” Eventually, I tried to get into bed, but ended up half on the edge of the mattress and half off. Then, I couldn’t get off the edge of the bed. There may have been a lot of moaning and even tears. Masculinity is overrated.

Eventually, I had a good idea, which like the aurora borealis, happens on occasion. The recliner for the win. Somehow, I slept as well in it as in bed. And that continues to be the case.

I read it takes twelve weeks to recover, but my doc cycling comedian friend texted this yesterday, “You can do activities as tolerated. It should start getting better about 2 weeks after the injury. It will be mostly gone by 6 to 8 weeks.”

The good news is I am way, way better already, six days in. Yesterday, I walked 1.25 miles to the gym, cycled for 30 minutes, and walked home. Just don’t ask me what kind of watts I was pushing. It’s amazing to be able to go from sitting to standing without feeling like someone is jamming a huge butcher knife right into my side. Now, it’s more of a butter knife.

So, my goal is to be back running, cycling, and lastly swimming, closer to six weeks than eight. I mean I need to be ready for the start of the Tour de France in early July. And time is wasting.

Unlike me, the white Oakley frames did not survive the crash. And for the unusually observant, energy gel in cheek, not chewing tabacco.

Little League Legend

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Sometime in the middle of my recent California cycling adventure, I wondered, what are we even doing, turning the pedals, for hours, every day?

The only thing I could come up with was extending our childhoods. We were men and women consciously choosing to be boys and girls of old.

Then, my peabrain shifted to my earliest memories of cycling in Louisville, KY in the late 1960s. When first learning to ride a bike, I remember someone, guessing an older sib, holding the seat and running alongside me until they weren’t. And then I remember swerving bigly, a few times right into metal mailboxes that dotted the edge of the road. Like Louisville’s own Cassius Clay, down goes Ron! Eventually, I swerved less and less.

My earliest, most vivid, fullblown cycling memory, was a year or two later, when I was dominating the kickball field at Zachary Taylor Elementary. It was this exact time of year, April, and Little League baseball tryouts were right around the corner.

Six or seven years old, my pals and I knew we needed a few hours of spring training before tryouts, so we laced our gloves onto some Louisville sluggers and laid them across our handlebars which we balanced precariously with balls bulging from our pockets. And then headed to a very nice, very large park, about a mile or two from our dented mailboxes.

Once we got to the park, we noticed the tennis courts sat under about 10 inches of water that had, until recently, been snow and ice covered. Maybe, we thought, as we took off our shoes and socks, we should splash around the courts a bit before officially starting spring training.

Within a few minutes, I sliced the bottom of my foot by stepping on a metal twist off beer top. The water turned red and I grew faint-headed. Someone hurriedly called my mom who lit into me. Since I’m the youngest of four, she was DONE with emergency rooms. On the way to get ten stiches, she got all up in my grill and said, “IF YOU EVER TAKE YOUR SHOES AND SOCKS OFF AND CUT YOUR FOOT AGAIN, DON’T CALL ME!” Which is pretty damn funny now, given how kind and caring she normally was. Everyone has a breaking point.

I think this was a Thursday and tryouts were all day Saturday. Even though Spring Training was cancelled on account of blood, I rallied, and showed up at tryouts on crutches. Shagging fly balls like a young Ken Griffey and even chucking the crutches and hobbling into the batters box to take some ferocious cuts like a young Andy Pages. A legend in both Louisville Little League history and my own mind.

Needless to say, the coaches were impressed with my pluck. I vaguely remember a bidding war breaking out. I told the coach that finally landed me that I didn’t want a bag, but if he could do something nice for my mom, like maybe comp her snow cones for the season, I’d greatly appreciate it.

The legend, with a scar on the bottom of his foot, fourth from the left.

Fallbrook To San Diego

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And that’s a wrap. What a week. Went even better than imagined. New roads and scenery, amazing weather, groovy new friends.

And everything, I mean everything, broke right for me. Water stops, food donations, local knowledge of the best routing, no flats or mechanicals, and on and on. Guardian angel(s)?

Exiting Fallbrook involved a lot of rollers, but I was feeling pretty good after the rest day, and we made quick work of them. As soon as things leveled out, a local legend was waiting for us with a suggested safer route. Which was cool. We weaved through backroads and neighborhoods until dropping onto a long nice bike path that took us all the way to Oceanside.

In Oceanside, we had to improvise because a thousand Oceanside 70.3 Half Ironperson athletes were smack dab in the middle of our planned route. So rude. Actually, as a lapsed triathlete who still follows the niche sport closely, it was really cool to catch glimpses of the leading men flying on their way to the finish.

In Oceanside, a former regular on this annual ride, a guy who sat out this year because of anticipated heat, prepared an amazing spread for us in a little park with the help of his wife. Ice cream, cookies, strawberry lemonade, and more. Amazing gesture.

After that, Skip and Chuck and I made like a 1988 Taco Bell commercial and made a run for the border skipping the Potato Shack where the bulk of the crew stopped to replenish and soak in the glorious coastline. Their pics prove they had even more fun than us.

There was an incident. I may have snapped at Skip. At one point, we were weaving through residential Del Mar one block from PCH (Pacific Coast Highway if you’re not quite as cool). I turned one intersection before Skip. Chuck was drifting a bit off the back and lost sight of me. Skip kinda barked at me that Chuck had lost me. I didn’t understand why he was so annoyed. I knew where Chuck was and rode through an alley to reconnect. We were separated for all of 60 seconds. Still, Skip was so damn tense. Riding bikes, in the sun, in one of the most beautiful spots in the world.

By the time we hit the base of Torrey Pines he was even more annoyed with the humble blogger because I was riding too far ahead. So I lost it, “Why are you so pissed at me and everything all the time?! I can wait at the top!” “Okay, go ahead and chase your KOM then.” Because I hit it I hard I had ample time at the top to plan an exquisite apology.

“Skip, I’m sorry,” I started. “Forget it,” he replied. Okay, avoid conflict much? What can you do except drag the world’s best apology into the trash can icon at the bottom right of the screen. You can’t force someone to listen and work through something if they refuse to.

Skip really knew the last 30 miles. Even owns a house in the middle of those miles that he rents out. So he pulled and pulled and pulled. Until Mission Bay. Then a gritty bike path. Then, nirvana, the Motel 6 where it all began. Whew, Skips rig was fully intact.

Thirty minutes later, we headed north. Nearly eleven hours later, we arrived at Chez Griffin in Sacramento. I showered and jumped in bed literally 5 minutes before I was going to turn into a pumpkin. The next morning started with banana pancakes and coffee. Bookending the trip at Chez Griffin is prob why the week broke like it did. They are amazing friends and the world’s best hosts.

Sunday was NorCal, Oregon, and home. Always amazed at how beautiful Northern California is. But don’t sleep on Oregon with the baby lambs, sheep, and llama farms.

To quote Casey Musgraves, “Oh, what a world.”

Postscript. Thanks to Dean for the zen picture. He went above and beyond to capture ZenRon.

Fallbrook Hotel. A no fun zone.
Namaste.
Don’t know the name. Lynn would be so disappointed.
Again with the elite refueling.
Wonder how I actually gained a few lbs?
Blummenfelt lucky I was not shipped to the race start. :)
My peeps in high school. Smallish waves.

The young hellions were running the signs. Go figure, even though we have far less time to live, we opted for a preponderance of caution.
Leaving SD we spotted Porsche getting my electric Cayenne dialed.

Miss Kaninna You Are Very Loud, Very Very Loud

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You have problems, I have problems. But my greatest problem right now is way worser than yours. I’m seriously undertrained for next week’s circumnavigation of San Diego County.*

So today I did what most anyone would do when unprepared for a big exam, I crammed. In the form of a hard session on an indoor bike at the Plum Street Y. With a coach.

When I ride indoors I just can’t replicate the intensity of trying to keep up with ADub when he attacks at the bottom of one of his fave south Thurston County climbs. Or when BBuck does his patented two mile pulls. Or when MGriffin dials up his diesel on the flats and I’m doing everything in my power not to lose his wheel. Or when TMAT hits SkateCreek, turns, and says, “Get lost loser.”

But today, thanks to my coach, Miss Kaninna, I was able to dial it up. Puddles of sweat thanks to Miss Kaninna, a rising Australian First Nations singer-songwriter and rapper known for blending hip-hop, soul, and punk.

Over the ear headphones were on full Miss Kaninna blast. As a result, I was producing Tadej Pogačar-like watts. I listened to enough tracks to develop a theory on why she continues to fly way under the radar.

There are three recurring themes in her lyrics. The first is aboriginal history and institutional racism which she hits way harder/better than egghead academics. The second is sexually explicit stuff that is just part and parcel of a young rapper’s art. The third is where the problem lies. In terms of Miss Kaninna crossing over to the (dis)USA in particular. There is a strong ACAB element to her lyrics. More to the point, my cycling coach raps about killing police. Do I need to say I don’t condone that?

For American concert producers that has to be a non-starter. My guess is Miss Kaninna is fine playing to and for her own people.

Personally, I dig half of Kaninna’s lyrics and ALL the beats. Introducing my cycling coach, Miss Kaninna.

  • You’re right, I will ride into shape right around the penultimate day. :)

Solo Travel For The Win?

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I’m sure you feel the exact same as the Huntington Beach, CA PressingPauser who texted me during the crossing, “I do hope you’ll continue with hourly updates on your journey north.”

Told him my laptop was proving a very helpful distraction, but the truth of the matter is the Strait of Juan de Fuca chop wasn’t nearly as bad as I anticipated and I avoided any feeling of imminent death.

Checked in early and am now sitting in my room reflecting on just how freaky deaky solo travel is. First, I’m happy to report, I am capable of filling out a customs form all by myself. Who knew?

Did you know when you travel solo, and you have two queen beds, you can use the spare one as an open dresser. Clothes, cables, all sorts of travel accoutrements spread across it?! Pretty groovy. Grab and go.

And if you want to sit in a chair by the window, and let the sun cook you, all while reading and sipping green tea, you can! For as long as you want. Mind blown.

And you can decide where to go to dinner yourself without any conferencing or changing of minds. At all. The Fish Market for the win.

And, you better be sitting down for this. Turns out you can use both sides of the bathroom counter! Just sling that toothbrush one direction, the contact lens case another, and spread out all the beauty products as if you are the Grand Poobah of the Water Closet. Because you are! And twice as many soft clean towels!

Altogether, there’s a bizarre absence of friction. But sports fans, while that no doubt is highly enjoyable initially, over the medium, and fo sho’ long-term, it’s detrimental to someday making another relationship work. Because friction is the lifeblood of relationships, and the more intimate, the more friction. Feeling out what your partner wants and needs, negotiating differences, and ultimately striking repeated compromises is the name of the game.

So as I do exactly as I want, what is happening to my banger interpersonal skills? I’ll tell you what. They’re atrophying.

When Will It Ever End?

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How does one humble blog so damn long? Is it the endurance athlete in me? Or the fame or fortune? Something all together different?

Before I tell you, a peek behind the curtains. I get inquires from East Indians with fake American names all the time, promising blogging glory though improved SEO, search engine optimization. Persistent buggers. I always say “no thank you” since I have no interest in monetizing this collection of knuckleheaded ideas. I have made zero effort to improve the site with an eye towards a larger readership. Which prob explains why I only get 100-200 site visits a day, except for the day I posted a picture of a bikini clad woman snowboarding. That day, my running posse probably accounted for 100-200 themselves.

Still, as I have written in the past, one of the coolest things about my small readership is the surprisingly high number of international readers, usually about 25% of the total. Por exemplar, for reasons I cannot explain, I’ve been blowing up in Singapore lately. I see you Singapore! Thank you!

But the best explanation for my literary longevity is that inevitably, whenever my enthusiasm wanes, someone says to me that they’ve appreciated something I’ve written. Almost always, someone who I had no idea was a reader.

Yesterday afternoon, capitalizing on beautiful weather, I walked to a meeting with a Certified Financial Planner whose office is by the Farmer’s Market. And then, on the way back, near Bayview Thriftway, a kitted up Roger materialized at the end of a ride. Roger lives in West Olympia so he was headed up the bridges and right by the Crib.

When he saw me, he pulled over to the curb and took his ear buds out. After our heartfelt bro handshake, he apologized for not having reached out during Lynn’s illness or since her passing. I told him not to worry about it, that that was okay. Would not have expected him too. He didn’t know Lynn and we hadn’t ridden together for sometime.

But, he said, with genuine emotion rare for the male species, he’d been reading the blog, “Even though it was really hard to at times.” Then he expressed the same appreciation that so many have, for me sharing our experience caring for Lynn in her final years, months, and days, as openly and honestly as possible.

And here’s the thing. Just maybe, absent my responsibilities for Lynn, absent professional responsibilities, absent any reason not to prioritize friendships, I’m learning to be present. Because I didn’t want to be anywhere else doing anything else. Buddhist-like contentment. My only time-related thought was how long Roger wanted to sit leaning on the curb clipped into one pedal.

After Roger shared a little bit about his own recent health struggles and Capital Forest mountain bike riding, he headed up and to the west, looking like a young Alberto Contador.

And I thought maybe this matters. And just maybe, I’ll continue.

Postscript. Another thing I don’t think I’ve ever done in lo’ these many years is ask readers for anything. Since streaks are made to be broken, let’s break that streak here and now. Be a Roger. Occasionally at least, when you read someone who moves you, let them know. It doesn’t necessarily have to be IRL as the kids say. Almost every online pub provides ways to leave comments. Resolve to leave a comment on occasion. It’s not hard. Not just here, but anywhere writers are trying to foster community. You may think your words of affirmation don’t amount to much, but au contraire.

Postscript 2. A more specific ask. Lately, I’ve been contemplating the advantages/disadvantages of this format versus starting a Substack. If you have an informed opinion, I’d be interested in hearing it. Thanks.

Postscript 3. Sometimes I amaze myself. Like when I spell “au contraire” correctly the first time. :)

Postscript 4. Today, Hong Kong SAR China is in the lead. East Asia/South East Asia battle royale!

JJ For The Win

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JJ and I were having another meaningful convo in the kitchen recently, which has become Deep Convo Central since our lives have been turned upside down. We weren’t thinking the same about whatever it was we were batting back and forth. Finally, a little exasperated with your humble blogger, she said, “Dad, I can hold two opposing ideas in my head at the same time.” Touché.

That’s what my mind returned to when she texted me this picture yesterday. To explain more fully, a few days ago, I got her monthly newsletter which lately has been mostly, but not exclusively, a beautiful, heart-wrenching reflection on her grieving process.*

Dig this flavor flav:

“The last two years were marked by such a different version of the mom I had had for the first 28 years of my life. She was so sick, she was so burdened by her illness and her symptoms. That has been the version of her most readily accessible in my memory. That has been the version showing up in my dreams, night after night, adding salt to the wound. If I can only see her in my dreams, can’t they at least be happy? Can’t she be healthy? Can’t I have the mom from that green couch? I believe one day they will be happy. One day she will be healthy again and she will visit me at night and whisper in my ear that she loves me, whisper that she misses me, that she’s still with me, if in a different form than before.

I still don’t feel normal, I still feel all sorts of wrong, I don’t recognize many aspects of life right now, I have a limited capacity, I don’t ask as many questions, I don’t beep bop around town. So it goes I suppose. I have such a greater understanding for the people in my life who have lost a parent and the hard work they did and continue to do to survive it. This is truly such hard work. And also, when I look, I see a slowly but surely improving ability to do more things in the day, a desire to socialize a little bit more, and flickers of a self that I recognize. When I am in the space to see them, there are some beautiful corners of grief – richer friendships, increased empathy, and a deeper understanding of the things that are important to me.”

All sorts of wrong coupled with a warm smile. Two opposing feels. At the same time.

*I told her she should be writing books, not selling them.