Dear hearts, I think he's gone. My inner eye's poked around inside of me looking for him.  He's not in my brain or my heart now.  He's not scooting through my veins at high rates of speed.  He's not sauntering up my esophagus either. Over the last eight years, he's tightly squeezed any number of my organs--Heart.  Lungs. Stomach. Intestines. Brain. He's squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.  Sometimes he's been bored.  Most times he's been scared. All times he's wanted me to suffer.

My heart's raced.  My brain's pounded.  My throat's constricted.  My stomach's shimmied and dipped.  Shaked. Rattled and rolled. 

And my intestines, well, my intestines....  Let's just say: it's all been unpleasant. 

But right now:

My black and white purring cat sleeps near me.  

Orioles, uninhibitedly gorgeous in their brilliant yellow and black feathers, cavort in the sprinkler's spray.  Ah!  "My" orioles shimmy too! Put to music, theirs would be the main stage act.  

"My" starlings--my returning, loyal, avocado tree nest building stalwart starlings--would be the earnest and hopeful opening act.  

I love flowers. I rejoice in orchids' blooming.  Recently planted bulbs' sprouting: a delightful anticipation. Tomatoes (shared with a local mocking bird) grown right outside this very patio window make me smile at their lush red hue. 

I must get to them before the mocking bird does.

Wine.  Writing and wine.  White please.  

Books.  Books and more books.  E-books and traditional.  "All the Light We Cannot See" and "City of Thieves" my most recent regretfully finished immersions. Both are the kinds of books at which I caress the book's cover, close my eyes and sigh at their completions. Anthony Doerr, the author of All the Light We Cannot See, by the way, is from Ohio.  Attended Bowling Green University, near Mt. Cory, the small village where I grew up.  David Benioff, the author of "City of Thieves" is not from Ohio.  No where near Mt. Cory. That does not, however, influence me.  I do not hold being born in (gasp!) New York City against Mr. Benioff.  Great writing is great whether from small farm land towns or from "the big city". Mr. Doerr's and Mr. Benioff's sentences are both lusciously and luminously constructed. 

I caressed both of their book covers.

Painting.  Recently discovered painting.  Painting flowers on pedestals. Painting geckos and butterflies. Hummingbirds. Humming people.  Me. Humming. Songs of joy and inspiration. Songs "adentro"; songs of which I have little awareness as I contemplate and choose paint colors.

Hours and hours of painting.  

Walking.  Swinging arms.  Hearing.  Birds' songs. Neighbors' greetings.  Seeing.  Sunlight on leaves.  

Seeing now my yawning black and white cat named Peanut.  His paws curled towards his furred body. Now reaching and stretching.  A paw grazes my thigh.  I scratch his ears. 

Oh yes, my dear and precious readers, I believe he is gone.