Wow. One Godawful Year.

Has passed. If I were more well adjusted, or talked to my therapist or wrote in a journal (or blog or something) or asked Flint to listen to me more often, or just figured out what in the hell my problem is with dealing with the most profound sense of loss I have ever felt, perhaps I would not have nightmares about you dying so often. Perhaps I would have found some way to let go. Perhaps I would have found some way to reconcile the fact that I think my dogs farting (or dogs' farting, whichever) is funny, though it both disgusted and annoyed you.

Mom, I miss you. And Puck is farting. Right now. It smells bad, and for some reason I am thinking of you. And my new darling Bean is snuggling, and I know you would have loved the way she played with German. And I miss you. Things have changed since you left. It's just not as good. I miss you, and it hurts every day. Every single day.