Sometimes

when I don't write
it's because I am too full. 

Richard has been present, and not present this week. I signed up to exhibit art the next two weekends. I signed up because I felt like I was going to die. I was compelled to live.

Long hilly ride today. I missed Rich while on this ride. There are so many things that come up, some too private to share, a sense that he is waiting for me when I get home.

Everything is as it is. I used to feel that any experience associated with Rich, as said about bicycling training, hurt so good. At least I could feel him.

Haven't riden like I did today in a while. It made me satisfied that I could, and sad that I did. How can things get back to normal. That platitude is so bogus.

Preparing the exhibit is a kick in the gut. It was a nuthouse the week of Rich's exhibits. I just about wanted to ring his neck if he printed one more piece for me to frame.

Rich's passion overwhelmed. Rich loved process. He could tell you how the air felt on his face, how the lighting affected everything. He wanted the photo to capture that experience for you.

I had to draw to remember to be alive. To look outside of grief. To help focus. My drawings may be on a cloths line tomorrow. Rich is not here to help me hang my work.