Grey Day

Grey clouds, of heart and soul, and outside too, for that matter. It feels much later than it is, on this stretched day when I can't find the reason for the stretching.

"I want to be a better mother," I said yesterday, and I meant it. The new tech, with it's tiny glowing screen and oh-so frustrating conglomeration of competing buttons and applications ate the day, the day I'd meant to spend with her.

He's gone, three long weeks of soul-searching, and I love him all the more for it. All on his own, no tech, not even a phone, praying and thinking and feeling. I wonder how he'll come back, if I'll recognize the eyes or if they'll tell me how different he is. I pray she knows him, changed or not, and shrieks when she sees her daddy coming like she shrieks when she sees a puppy.

And so my days are grey, without him. Technology is small substitute, though one that fills the emptiness . . . with more emptiness that doesn't feel like emptiness, at least not until the day is over and there's not much rattling in the soul.