It was a slow kind of weekend, the kind where you don’t rush, but somehow still don’t stop.
Just doing what needed to be done, moving through it all without urgency, yet still feeling the quiet weight of it.
The rain finally came after a stretch of unusually warm days. It softened everything.
The air, the ground, even the pace of the day.
The plants soaked it in, and so did I in a way, just being home, in my own space, listening to it fall.
Even with a bit of juggling, it felt good to be here.
But underneath that calm, things are shifting.
My girl is still unwell.
That hasn’t changed.
It sits in the background of everything, constant and unresolved, shaping the way each day feels.
And her little dog, seventeen years old now.
Last night I really thought she might die.
She wasn’t moving much at all.
I brought her inside, kept her warm, stayed close.
She made it through the night, but she’s still barely moving today.
You can feel it, she’s right at that edge now.
Not quite gone, but not really here in the way she used to be.
It’s a strange space to sit in, this in-between.
Holding onto small comforts, knowing they’re temporary. Watching, waiting, not being able to do much more than just be there.
So the weekend was slow.
Quiet on the surface.
But underneath, it carried a lot.
The Lady in the Back Row 