Things I Do Not Know: 

Whether a tiny children's wheelbarrow full of Tito's is an act of friendship, grief, flirtation, performance art, or evidence for future legal proceedings.

Whether Patti would be horrified by current events or delighted to have been proven right.

Whether Sister Denise knows the answer to courage or simply kept showing up long enough that everyone mistook persistence for wisdom.

Whether being "raised by nuns" is a legitimate sociological category or a regional medical condition.

Whether my purpose is dead, mostly dead, undead, or simply wandering around confused looking for its glasses.

Whether grief is love with nowhere to go, or love that has gone unibomber feral.

Whether four cats is the clinical threshold where a man officially becomes a cryptid.

If "I love you" is a conversation starter or ender, which more often.

Whether the universe is trying to teach me a lesson, send me a message, or just enjoys watching me overanalyze signs.

Whether I am healing or merely collecting increasingly sophisticated metaphors.

Whether the giant web of relationships I keep mourning is actually broken, or merely changing shape faster than I can recognize it.

What I hope for vs worry about, like re how today unfolds.

What's the real difference is between serious and critical.

How to line dance (still). 

Things I Do Know:

Patti would have opinions, all of them certain and well organized.

Walter can locate a nun faster than most people can find their car keys.

Sister Denise has attended enough funerals to know some shit.

I was raised by flamoyant lunatics, followed by gray nuns. 

Making Brandon laugh improves my day by approximately 17%.

People are easier to love when they are alive, but not by much!

If I buy a children's wheelbarrow and fill it with vodka, at least two people have to find it funny.

Every year I become slightly more like my mother and slightly less surprised by it, until now.

I do not actually want answers. I want witnesses. (Are you seeing this?👀)

Love is not an emotion as much as an administrative burden.

Someone always needs a ride, a casserole, a letter, a memorial, a recommendation, a prayer, a raffle ticket, a pet, diapers, bail money, a strong hug.

Nobody (worth writing about) is ever really "done." Not with grief. Not with hope. Not with each other.

I am much funnier than most of my problems.

The purpose of life is probably not productivity. If it were, orange cats and shihtzus would have gone extinct.

Despite all available evidence, I remain glad to be breathing.