Speechless

I'm the kind of person who does not mess with bowls when it comes to ice cream. The carton and a spoon is all that's needed to make the experience unique. I pride myself on being able to simply take a few bites (as in about fifteen) before sighing happily and pushing the sweetness away. It takes talent, I know.

Life in these parts has been on fast forward for the last couple of weeks. School is in full swing and my feet have a hard time finding comfort in my fluffiest of slippers. I haven't cooked a meal since last Friday and that was solely because of a birthday. I'm not sure what kinds of atrocities lurk behind my refrigerator door and I'm pretty sure the dishcloth by my sink has grown its own zip code.

I'm having a hard time caring. Oh, I did make a half-hearted effort tonight to take care of the dishes and vacuum the cat fur and tackle the litter box. I set the trash outside and hung up my work clothes (today's outfit anyway) and watered the struggling plant on the back porch. I called my mom and listened to the husband and meandered around the internet. I finished a case brief and submitted it late, watched a video on conquistadors just for the sheer fun of it, and fixed a cup of coffee to accompany the ice cream and the spoon... and yet, in all the madness, I cannot escape the very thing my mom and I talked about tonight.

It's almost been a year.

Taken during a visit soon after I moved away. We were going to church
 to listen to the preacher who would end up speaking at my dad's service. 

And this is where I run out of words.