We have started the anniversary of the last week of Marisa’s life.

I feel young.  I feel old.  I feel much like when I walked into the monument place to design the headstone for Marisa’s grave.

(I still can’t believe that the words Marisa’s and grave go together)

When I walked into that place I never experienced a feeling like that.  I felt so young to bury my spouse at 33.  I felt so old because of the experience of burying my spouse at 33.  A strange feeling.

We went to church this morning.  I listened to a very capable pianist play this morning.  But I thought of Marisa.  Marisa used to play that piano.  Marisa used to amazingly grace those keys.  And I couldn’t, nor didn’t want to, shake that deep feeling of grief.

And then I wondered about what I should do with those memories.  Write it down for the kids? – for sure.  Write it on the blog?  – I guess so.  Cherish them? – you bet.

So I did what I normally do when I wonder about things.  I pray and then talk to Zion, Jacoba and Zekijah.  They didn’t have anything profound to say.  But then again, neither did I.

So we snowflaked the ceiling in the living room.