In Which We Never Speak of It Again

But that won't happen.
Because death just keeps on a'comin'...to chickens and dogs and cats and parents and friends and on and on.

They've stopped treating my neighbor's father, the one with a brain tumor. The one that's my age. She said it was probably down to 2-3 weeks.
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Sometimes I fall prey to someone else's timeline, someone else's modus operandi, someone else's Bible verse when it comes to grief and sadness. Instead of just listening to myself and being still in the pain. Like labor, when one resists, it's harder.

There's a thin line between sadness and wallowing; between acknowledgement and detachment.

The one thing I do know - the only way out is through.