This is the first time I’ve written in 13 weeks. Just a few days ago I began to feel my bones again. Began to feel the tug of Life, reminding me that I’m here, with work to do, relationships to feel, appreciate and tend. Outside in the front south garden, the one that is ironically my nemesis for its shady wetness, I looked over at the place I had trained myself not to look - the place where my 18 year old son vomited in the gravel one night in late spring. At the time it was an un-landed shiver in my spine. A deep rent in my gut. It whispered bone-chilling warnings that something was very wrong with him, though I couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) really look at what that was.