this page intentionally left blank

The hands of time are a killer, no? Easter dinner was to be had a Jason's relative's over the Bremerton ferry in the most picturesque village of Port Orchard. It was to be traditional fare... ham, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, and apple turnovers made with the very apples grown in the front yard. Although the conversation was plentiful and the company accommodating, I found myself struggling to hold back the tears of my loss. My first Easter dinner without my most precious love, what was I to do? Even still, I am not certain. Like yesterday and the day before that, I somehow survived, yet I am empty and without peace. The night sped on. The almost-one-hour Bremerton ferry passage that we took to the island was unavailable and the Southworth ferry was not leaving again for several hours, so we decided to take the tragic and historic Tacoma Narrows Bridge back to the Emerald City. Not wishing undue fatigue on the night before our early departure, we landed in the Red Fin. Attached to the hotel, it was convenient and accessible. There was some sort of altercation at the bar that only some hours after became clear as to the details and sequence of events. A young couple, James and Kira, from Ireland, were in town on holiday and had quite easily, and without second thought, used local (to them) colloquialisms in conversation that deeply offended a potentially-compensating-for-something young Seattleite. We don't toss around "prick" and "cunt" the way the Brits and Irish do in our everyday vernacular. It's a natural for someone well traveled to understand, but this particular chap was circumstantially ignorant. Kira, the bonnie lass, was inconsolable and as much as I wish I could make it "all better" for her, she was quite mental. James was intoxicated beyond the comfortable reach of his equilibrium. I'm quite at ease with foreign travelers while simultaneously, mildly embarrassed by the less fortunate American majority in situations such as this... I could only think of saving them from this fate. It wasn't to be. Jason and I excused ourselves for deeper glasses and a more quiet dungeon. The morning came early. Wake up call, alarm clock, and cell timer were barely sufficient. I'm OCD and a wee bit insecure about oversleeping on the last day of a trip. It has a lot to do with my inability to bed down early when I know the end is near. The coffee shop near our hotel, without contest, serves the best café latte I've ever experienced. Our normal barista, Ashley from Alaska, was not around this sunrise, but the "home of the velvet foam" was just as satisfying. I don't know if I mentioned hiking the trails, beach, and overlook of Discovery Park yesterday, but it was as memorable for me as the trip to Rainier. Much like the old Pioneer Square architecture reminds me of Paris, the adoration and abundance of dogs in Seattle proper reminds me of France. So often, my thoughts were punctuated by my thoughts of how my wife would love and embrace the moment. How cruel and unfair is this existence without her? There is no answer worth the breath it is carried upon however, I struggle with each taste embraced by my palette, the light taken in by my eyes, and all riding upon it. Prayers of gratitude and humbly wishing to live again are fumbled through while others think about stuffed, colored eggs and an oversized rabbit. As I sit on this aircraft, settling my gin and tonic(s), I consider how this trip has been an exercise in fortunate reflection. I miss home. I miss burying my head in Henry's soft coat and breathing him in... the faint, distant purr of Penelope as I drift into a self-medicated sleep. I miss being wrapped in the memories held within the meager walls of her home. Sometimes, love is simply lost.