Brent. One Month.

I really don't have many words today, although I feel them pushing and shoving in my head, wanting to get out.

He's still gone.

Isn't that terrible? I haven't yet woken up and discovered (to my delight) that it's all just been a bad bad dream.

I haven't written many things that need to be written. I haven't written about memories of him. I haven't written about the funeral. I haven't posted a lot of pictures.

I thought I'd do all that today, but it can all wait.

Instead, here is a George Santayana sonnet a friend sent us.

With you a part of me hath passed away,

For in the peopled forest of my mind

A tree made leafless by this wintry wind

Shall never don again its green array.

Chapel and fireside, country road and bay,

Have something of their friendliness resigned;

Another, if I would, I could not find,

And I am grown much older in a day.

But yet I treasure in my memory

Your gift of charity, and young heart’s ease,

And the dear honor of your amity:

For these once mine, my life is rich with these.

And I scarce know which part may greater be—

What I keep of you, or you rob from me.

Love you, Brentie B. Miss you.