Grief is a backdoor friend. Shows up without calling, walks in without knocking. Before you know it, she's poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down for a chat. Seemingly oblivious to my life in rapid progress I pick up the phone and ask her if she's got one. She laughs knowing I screen my calls and am notorious for being slow to return them. We're old friends, the kind that go way back to high school, and although neither of us moved away, our paths only cross once in a while. [Which to be perfectly honest with you is fine by me.] Still, we know each other well enough that we're able to pick up where we left off without missing much of a beat.

Truth is I knew she was trying to reach me. Just didn't have time to go there. She's needy. It's not like I can invite her everywhere I go . . . not exactly a party friendly kind of gal and she monopolized most of my fall as it is. I do have other friends and family vying for a piece of me and she's exhausting sometimes.

The wood pile almost got me. I drove past some yard yesterday and the remnants of an old tree were laying in large round pieces on the sleeping grass and in a mmm bop I'm in dad's backyard the night he died. My internal security software successfully quarantined an emotional set back but it was noted.

The hill across from the duck pond this morning triggered something as well. Albeit the tall pines or the way Abby crunched through the dried leaves and pine cones with the occasional squirrel on the alert managed to move me. Noted.

The fishing line caught in the bare branches of a young tree and noticeable only when the Springlike rays of sun bounced against it brought her right on in the door. Or almost. Felt the familiar warming in the eyes but no spillage. Noted.

I suppose she noted it too. Thus, the visit.

All right. Hello. But this can't be an all day thing . . . I have places to go and people to see. Let's just get this over with. And next time . . . call first.