There I wait, on that other shore, for your return. Wandering albatross cry overhead. I have a photograph of you; the only one was able to save from the fire. The light in the image is poor and I cannot see your face. It has been so long. The ocean froths around the pebbles at my feet. Am I remembering you, or the image of you?

* * * * *

My neck is a bit sore; maybe I slept too hard. 

I am left with the pain and the wondering.

It's bulk trash time! I hauled out the remains of the old bed, and the cracking green plastic patio furniture. Also put out an armoire. Around 2 in the morning, Marceline's frantic barking woke us. Someone was taking it. Oh, how I love bulk trash time. 

Would that I could place my troubles on that crumbling curb, to be hauled away by morning. But no; some other poor soul might mistake it for a treasure and attempt to shoulder it themselves. Best that I bear my own burdens; as indeed I gladly endured the pleasures in their pursuit.

Remembering the picture is better than not remembering at all.