I don’t have much to write about that I can share. I have parts of stories, little morsels that harden the longer they are exposed. She used to buy me Gladiolus. I have a memory of her placing them in a vase, and arranging them to her liking. He used to call me “Al,” a term of endearment that always warmed my soul. Still warms my soul. I am missing old friends, that’s really all there is to it. Nothing dangerous, or threatening, just returning to places that bring me comfort. I feel most of my day I spend in uncertainty, as I look for a job, fold the laundry, do the dishes, sweep the floor, and reach out to friends. This is what brings me momentary peace.

I am also exploring what it means to believe in God, or a spirit, or the universe. I was baptized Catholic, raised Lutheran, and gradually introduced to beliefs held by atheists, and that is where I remain. I know that on the rare occasion that I do go to church, I find myself tearing up during the hymns and sermon; emotions envelop me, feelings too complicated for me to parse. So something is unresolved, whether it’s relevant to my current search for meaning I don’t know. But I’m tempted to believe it is so.

I will keep an open mind. I will double tie my shoelaces, stir the batter until it is smooth, and check the door twice before I go to bed. In all of these things I can find meaning, motivation and comfort.