I have not fully learned the art of telling stories with half-truths and personal experiences thinly veiled with metaphors and little, well crafted white lies. But it's the only way I can write because I'm frightened of revealing too much. I have stories and experiences and emotions dangling precariously at the edge of my fingertips but hardly ever have the right words to convey them. I still try. How did I go from saying "I love you" a lot and not saying it often enough? How did I go from desperately trying to bottle up my emotions from feeling far too much and now, barely feeling anything at all? 

Two days ago we woke up to bloody red stains on our dog's sleeping mat on the floor. Her name is Chloe and she's the oldest and first dog I've ever had. I was half-awake, still drunk and heavy from the weight of sleep when my mother said that the veterinarian suspects that Chloe has a tumor. And the first thing I thought was if they were sure that it was a lost cause and we were going to lose her sooner rather than later, I was certain in my decision that I'd rather put her to rest instead of inflicting more pain on all of us. I've lost too many things that I love. 

I've hardly burned through the list of books I planned to read earlier this summer and there are so many things still left undone. I read somewhere that Home is not a place but instead, it's the people who live in it that make it one. I'm not certain where Home is just yet. There isn't anyone I can talk to about how I feel so distant and so caged. 

Last night I was on the phone with a couple of friends, inhaling the long and short gaps of silence in between conversations and talking about how grateful we all were to reconnect despite the miles and the years that kept some of us apart. For me it was another one of those "Who would've thought..." moments that I've been finding myself in more often nowadays.

I can't think of anything else to say. 

February was about tying up loose ends, and March was about finding each other again, again, and again.