Unaccustomed as I am...

...to writing early, I thought I would give it a try.

This day has been uneventful, externally.
Inside...a reprise of missing, of longing, each significant loss echoing the rest:
my beloved; my mother, my adoptive father, my grandparents. My friend Marsha. My apartment in Jerusalem-as-it-was, and my teacher.  Mazal and Bracha the cats.
Each one, remembered, brings floating to the surface my collection of regrets:  the things I wish I had said or done, or wish I had asked.  Things I wish I hadn't said or done.  Things I wish I had done differently, and better.
That collection of regrets may curl up and hibernate for a while; but it does waken and return, gnawing, sharp-eyed, like a line in that song by Susan Osborn:  "Well, the dragon doesn't live here; but he sometimes comes to visit..."
Yes.  He does.
(The memories of what I did do well for the ones I loved don't float up as readily.)

Perhaps I've just entered that part of the cycle, nearing the end of my solar year, when everything presents itself to be reckoned with in preparation for the year to come.
We'll see.
Good night.