In which I skip out on Instagram and Facebook for the month of March but still allow myself the internet.

I am bone-weary.

Maybe it’s still the transition of seasons.

Perhaps it’s the frantic rush of my baby bird as she sorts her belongings and packs for a month in Paris and then comes home to a new job and the search for her own place.

It’s certainly in the lingering illness in my lungs.

Maybe it’s saying goodbye to our old dawg and the grief that it stirs up. He was so related to Dane – Dane was Winston’s person, and when Dane died Winston never really recovered.

Sicily and I have discussed that we would really like, for Winston’s sake, for heaven to exist. If it does, he is eating peanut butter and bacon and sitting on all of the furniture there. We are not convinced that Dane is actually there, but we hope there are allowances for visits, because Winston would really like to go with Dane for a ride in the brown Dodge he came home in.

Go easy, Winston. Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.