Not Tuscany

This is Ashland, Oregon, a little past dawn. The storm that drenched us yesterday had not entirely blown off, and there were mists of rain drifting down from the hills. As I watched, the sun broke through and bathed some of the fields and pastures, and the day that dawned in mists and mellow "lemoncholy" (new word for the day) eased into full sun. Sadly, we said goodbye to Bob, all of us a little teary-eyed. Jeremy drove me back to Portland with the top down on his Miata, the wind blowing our hair.

Now we're having a little down time, and then we'll go out to dinner, and in the morning he'll drive on to Vancouver, B.C. and I will prepare my house for Kismet's arrival tomorrow afternoon. A volunteer from the rescue agency will deliver her to my apartment.

I have been thinking about Molly, about how life can turn on a dime, about how precious it all is, and how brief. And so this is my tribute to her, a day early.