Small bites

My mother used to say, "What is so rare as a day in June. Then, if ever, come perfect days."

This has been a rainy, cold three weeks this June. It is in the sixties, dreary and overcast, and raining.

Again.

The obituaries appeared in both papers today, which was a small piece of grief. I was the only one able to read them.

I ordered flowers, which was another small piece of grief.

Rocky and EG got haircuts for the funeral, which was another small piece of grief.

Small bites is all I can handle at this point.