springtime brings good things back

and other brilliant things

last week, my cousin and i watched Moulin Rouge and saw Every Brilliant Thing on Broadway— two pieces about love and death. both have served as a reminder, to me, to consciously acknowledge why i love being alive.

life has been feeling… difficult and a tad stale these days. i’ve seen a lot of cloudy days, the temperature hasn’t been consistent, waves of grief have been pummeling me since January, and depressive patterns have crept back into my regular routine. i’m tired. i lack motivation to do more than the basics (eating, sleeping, going to work, not crying anytime something remotely inconvenient happens to me or i scroll past more reasons to hate the world). and i won’t ask for help because who isn’t going through the same thing right now?

but the weather this week is leveling out, and last week, at least one cool thing happened to me. and every day offers me at least one lovely reminder that being alive— living, breathing, witnessing— can be pretty wonderful.

1. springtime brings good things (feelings, plants, sunshine) back
2. watching new green things emerge from my garden every year
3. that i am able to process grief while experiencing joy and gratitude
4. grief’s power of bringing people closer together
5. knowing that i can make myself lemonade whenever i want

vines // voids

april 28, 2026 — morning pages 179

i’m up before eight AM having my first coffee as i write from the couch so Beans can be close to me. he and Howl were not helpful in my efforts to get a solid night’s sleep. they were chasing each other around the basement at one in the morning, and Howl wouldn’t stop whining and trying to snuggle thirty minutes before my alarm was set to sound. i am not complaining, to be clear. i’m simply recounting my night; i was annoyed at the time.

i only have one full month left of Beans’ idiosyncrasies and am determined to savor every moment. i love knowing how he works. i love that when i get home, he’ll cry until i sit on the floor to greet and pet him. i love that when i go to bed at night, he will settle into one of two places: next to me in little spoon position so that i can rub his belly until i fall asleep or between my legs where he’ll just go to sleep for a least a few hours. (i’ve learned that i have trouble falling asleep without him.) i love that i’m writing this from the couch because i knew he’d want to sit next to me after finishing second breakfast. (i even love sitting up watching him between 2 and 5 in the morning to feed the boys breakfast and make sure Howl doesn’t try to steal Beans’ food.)

i once claimed that Beans wasn’t my cat. at the time, he wasn’t, but it made Cammie upset to hear. but now he is my cat, as well as hers, and i am heartbroken at the thought of not seeing him everyday; not having him curled up next to me at night. the worst part is that he won’t know until it’s happened. and he won’t understand why. and neither will Howl. one day, Beans won’t be here, and Howl and I will have to learn what that means together.

that’s when the next chapter, or rather, the next book will begin. we’re still in the afterward of our current story, where things are relatively normal for the boys and i am dreading my future feelings of the actual end.

it’s difficult now; the word “ex” feels wrong in my mouth when i say it. it feels like drawing a red X over her every time and it feels harsh. and don’t get me wrong— i’ve accepted the end of past dynamics and that this is what’s best for both of us. but it still hurts. moving into month five of this way of being together but separate still hurts. but i think it’s nothing compared to how move-out day will feel.

Beans & Howl at the holidays