anahat nad

A monsoon has taken over the northeast.
Soon I'll have to attach floaties to my car in hopes it won't drown, and an umbrella to Bailey's collar, as my poor dog hasn't gone outside in two days. Literally. Two days. She'll walk onto the deck, possibly get as far as the bottom step, and run, not walk, back inside, all the while looking at us with her sappy eyes as if to say, 'Why? I don't understand. Make the wetness go away.'
At this rate she's either peeing in a potted plant or unnoticed corner, or Labradors have incredibly large, expandable bladders.

But assuming my plane can weather [no pun intended] the storm and make it to 10,000 feet, I'll need not worry about the weather pattern in Massachusetts, as tomorrow I'll be on my way to Florida. For six days. Alone.

While it's a small blessing to be able to pack up at my leisure and head to the beach, it's just another tiny reality check that it's not my grandparent's home anymore. It's my grandfather's house. By title only, as he's not even living there. The home I associate it with seems to be slowly dissipating, and my grandmother's presence, while prevalent in my mind, seems to be drifting to just memories. My heart aches for the twenty-two years of life I spent there. I'm not quite ready or willing to let it go.

If we survive the storms, though damp and no doubt moldy, perhaps it will help wash away this winter and encourage the spring along. I could use a little color in my life.