1. I step out onto the back stoop to check the movement of the air. This is how I know what the heat will be like today.

2. This newly acquired practice - of checking the air - reminds me of that morning in the vineyard with Adam. It was a chilly 42 degrees and the dew was soaking through my converse and wetting my feet. And he said that the way clouds and the sky looked that morning told him that the sunset that night would be beautiful. I am learning how to read the sky.

3. There are only the three of us in the warehouse today moving furniture around, taking pictures, making small talk. I take a stroll through the shop to see if I can capture anything interesting and my eyes rest on a stack of polygons cut out of wood. He sees me touching them and tells me what they're to be used for. He tells me that his brother died on Monday and that those shapes are for the lid to the urn he is making.

4. Him in his black cut-off tee and red bandanna around his head, coffee in his hand, Johnny Cash playing from his phone, telling me that his brother is dead now. That this is for the urn he is making for him. I am telling him that I am sorry and that this is going to be beautiful. Him with his sad eyes and soft smile and coffee in his hand. 

5. What I wanted to say, but couldn't think to say in that moment was, "What a beautiful way to honor your brother."

6. We are in a constant relationship with grief. Constantly experiencing the loss of an idea, a dream, a person, a relationship, a sense of self or place. And so I know that because this is true about life, then there must ways in which we can learn to move with grief. How am I in my relationship with Grief? How am I moving with Grief?

7. The flashcards all over the floor. Standing in the middle of the stack.

8. Late afternoon cappuccinos.

9. What I didn't say: "What a beautiful way to honor your brother."

10. The deer are back.