I have no title.

Too sad to sleep. Is that a thing?

I made the mistake of touching Max’s urn as I went to bed. Is that what it’s called when it’s a wood box? Is it still an urn? I can’t think straight. But it opened floodgates, which I guess means they should be emptied a little more frequently.

I think of my Dad, fresh ashes only six months old, in his wooden urn, downstairs. Mixed with my Mom’s ashes, five years old. Only me and my sister left from that nuclear family, but at least I have her. I’m so glad I have her.

I am so tired of being sad, but I can’t help it. I try things, I promise. I work out, I play with Mayhem, visit with friends, do projects, even visited a cow ranch recently. But I’m miserable, both inside and to be around. I can fake it for a minute, but I don’t know how my husband stands me.

It’s the drifting thoughts. Of a house emptied out, signing papers, how Max used to snuggle his muzzle into blankets, the last long conversation I had with my Dad, the last coherent conversation I had with my Mom. They’re all wound together, rarely separate.

It’s times like these I feel so brittle, small, like a crumpled piece of paper. But I remember too that these are good days. There is so much time in my past that I was unhappy for one reason or another, but looking back, those were good days. I wish I was there now. I would go through the pain again to have them all back. Max frisking at the bottom of stairs, my Mom guilting me that I hadn’t called recently, my Dad forgetting my birthday.

I know in the future I will look back on my todays, wishing I was here. It gives me no solace, though. Just something like guilt, a preemptive mourning for things not lost yet.

I wish I knew when I would stop feeling this way, sadness dragging me like undertow.

Don’t mind my midnight mournings, unedited. And what do I title this now? At least that will distract me from my emotions for a minute.