There is a touch of winter in the air today, although November has just begun. By my calculations, winter is weeks away. But it is gray and cold and feels winterlike. In my heart as well. Winter has descended early.
Trying to finish my novel has brought me a great deal of anguish and uncertainty. I just can’t seem to stay with it long enough to finish. The novel is done but the rewrites seem endless.
He moved slowly from the hospital bed to the bathroom. I watched his agony. I looked over at my grandmother. She sat quietly, his pain reflected in her eyes. They had been married, my grandfather and grandmother, for over forty years, and had raised two daughters, my aunt and my mother. And now she watched him slowly die.
On Thursday, July 21, 2011, my twenty-year-old son left work early and never came home. His body would be found six days later in a remote area overlooking the Sweetwater Canyon, a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, and my life would never be the same. One year later, my wife took her life.