Journal entry by Eve Ilsen — 19 minutes ago
This week has fled too soon.
It is already mid-week, while it still feels like Monday.
I look at my desk and it is still a mess.
Mishka the Cat is hiding.
These days come, out of nowhere, when I suddenly miss my beloved and my mother, the two dearest people to my heart, terribly. Terribly.
They are no more gone than they were yesterday; but today I am weeping for their absence.
With the yearning come all the regrets for what I wish I had done better---all those things that cannot be repaired. Surely they have long forgiven me; I find I still cannot forgive myself.
If someone else came to me with this grief, I might have some wisdom for them.
Perhaps I would tell them to write a letter to each, pouring out my heart. And to fold each one, tucking the ends to make an envelope. And to put it under the pillow, asking for a dream visit.
And if no visit were forthcoming, perhaps to take each letter out to the garden, and burn it, and watch the smoke rise, and give the ashes to the roses. And to wait for a sign.
I was much better at figuring out the wise thing to do for someone else.