Making The Donuts

 On the first morning back from Winter Break, I woke with a start just moments before my alarm went off. 

I was dreaming of seeing our fifth grade teacher making his way down to his room, inevitably one of the early arrivals. He would be there early to set his day in motion. Somewhere in that flurry, we would stop at the top of the stairs, or in the downstairs hallway and catch up.

We talked about the sporting news. We talked about the movies we had seen. We talked about the concerts that he had seen or were coming to town. 

It was a human connection that took the edge off the rest of the day's strum and drang. 

That moment in the dark of my return to business as usual, the thing my wife and I refer to as "making the donuts," I felt the snap back to the reality without Joe Lynch. 

I knew that there would still be plenty of folks I could banter with and perhaps even bore with my set of obsessions. I would adapt and overcome.

Eventually. 

That moment was all about being alone in the dark. Then I remembered to share this feeling with my wife, with whom I have ridden the grief train together on so many occasions. Something about being at home and safe over the holidays kept the full weight of this loss from crashing in on me. Now it was time to embrace the new reality. 

I could tell you all about how I feel about the Denver Broncos getting the top seed in the AFC playoffs. I could share my ambivalence toward Marty Supreme. I am currently on the lookout for the next Dad Rock show to roll into my area. 

You'll probably get to hear a lot more about those kind of things.

Now that Joe is gone.