Though the trees are all growing well and my garden has yet to stop blooming even this late in the season. I have been unable to stop the tears. I do not want to plant the tree for Jorge because this means burying a part of Joe with him.
When I moved my chair away from the computer before I posted Moskva, I fought the urge to erase the memory, to move on, to come back to Jorge, to hold on to Joe for one more day. I could not, for all the sadness, even never knowing he was there I feel there were many days to Joe and they all connect us. I have thus spent the last weeks transplanting shares of my life from the city to the cottage, at first just the keepsakes, the ones Joe collected and art we both loathed but somehow inspired our lives collectively.
I moved eight boxes of books we never unpacked from storage in the city and bought full height solid oak shelves to line the wall of the lofted bedroom, the appeal is striking from the sitting room but half empty I could not help thinking we were not done stocking our life together.