I’d planned for my New Year’s resolution to clean the litter box everyday, but that one is right out. A sadness that is magnified by crumpled fleeces mistaken for slumbering forms and the little house sounds that were her subtle comings and goings has all but replaced the crippling grief of the first few days. M and I have little wakes before bed and over coffee and in the car, remembering what we loved best – everything but her every-door-must-be-an-open-door policy – and what we miss the most – everything else.
I’m resolving instead to make the very best of what remains, the love and comfort of friends. I am often and regrettably guilty of shutting myself up in the house, what social outings I do indulge most often including dinners at home and knitting companionably while watching Doctor Who. Among about a hundred other things, I could be a better friend, and more, I would like to be. I should see someone besides workmates and my husband at least once a week – their unrivaled excellence not withstanding – and the laundry and my writing won’t suffer for it.
Besides, if I’d like to start querying in the spring, I’ll want at least twelve shoulders to cry on.