Self portrait, taken with broken camera
Ash Wednesday arrives and brings with it reminders of mortality—my own and that of others.
The paternal grandfather is dying and being with him this morning was especially difficult, emotionally. He continues to decline. He is neither eating nor drinking. He is thin and frail, but mostly of good mind. He is terrified of being alone.
The ashen cross upon my forehead and its accompanying line—"From dust you have come and to dust you shall return"—have my mind elsewhere. I cannot read. I cannot write. Sleep is fitful.
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