Luna... Luna... Luna... 
I've had stories inspire me to write them before, but Luna is the only character I've ever met that wants me to live the story with her. She came to mind about two or three years ago. I love her and want to get to know her. I'm not sure where this will go... but here we go... Let's talk about Luna...
The Columbia Falls Volunteer Fire Department #3 Chief didn't usually call any available volunteers in or have morning briefings, but today he did. Asked any available volunteer to come in for a 7am briefing. Three were able to make it in, Bonnie, Sam, and Ken. The Chief started as they all informally took up space in the common area.
"She came in last night. Well fed, clothes were clean. There's a canister of formula in the diaper bag. A safe harbor baby. Looks like her parents must have dropped her. All we've got is the video and the note. They were careful to cover their faces but definitely male and female..." 
The chief, a portly man, no one would want to see running into a burning building, pressed play on the video feed. 
The time tracker noted 12:54am. A couple, male and female, age unknown, carried a car seat and diaper bag up to the front of the Columbia Falls VFD #3. They came from the north side of the parking lot, kept any vehicle they used to access the fire department out of the video's view. Both were gloved, wearing over large shaded glasses and had COVID style masks over their nose and mouth. Both touched the baby, hugged the baby, lovingly but made no noise, spoke no words. They strapped the baby in the car seat, set the diaper bag beside it, with the note on top and walked away the way they appeared. 
The whole interaction lasted less than four minutes. 
"What's the note say, Chief?" one of the volunteers asked as she rocked the baby in her arms.
The Chief, picked it up, as if he actually needed to look at it again to recount what it said, "Her name is Luna. She never sleeps."  
"So far she hasn't... I'm guessing she's one, maybe two months old. Should be sleeping every two to four hours. Nothing yet. Not a wink."

I lost my computer. What's one more loss right? Evidently on the heels of the largest loss in life it's just enough to set my sad sorrowful soul off into an explosive fit of grotesque grief once again. Who knew? 
Who knew?!
Aftermath... after an explosive fit of emotion, mourning, melancholy you look around and observe the wreckage. Surely I'm not the only one, the only woman at least, who's regretted what happened in a fit of emotion. I never understood hysteria until the last few years. Perimenopause has wrecked me, and just in time to deal with the "all of it" of losing a child and building a dream and leaving a life I once knew and creating a new life in a new place with the love of my life. The love of my life who is lucky enough to the the "all of it" all over him. Lucky guy. 
So here I am in the aftermath, trying to figure out what to do with myself, my self that I do not know or recognize, although I remember who I once was and know who I want to be.
Here I am. Finally out of the spinning loop of horrible feelings and spiraling thoughts. 
Here I am. On a borrowed computer spewing words for therapy and art and you and me. 
Here I am. I am here. Here sitting on a swing that leans a little too far back to be comfortable, but here I am. (I'll remember to bring a pillow for support next time)
Here I am. Still, for but a moment. Rested after a 2 mile walk, because this I know I MUST do in the wake of the aftermath. I MUST move! I MUST be active, get my heart rate up, get endorphins and dopamine flowing. I MUST because it keeps medicated. Yeah, like a pill. 
Here I am. Repeating wisdom of the ages and science to myself. I've known this about me for years and somehow in the mess of grief, I've lost the motivation to "do" walks, or hikes, or workouts, yet I MUST. 
Here I am. Hearing birds chirping and letting thoughts filter into and out of my head in a beautiful flow of consciousness. 
Write. Write was my word of the year and ironically I've written less, I think, this year than the decade past. Maybe two decades. Irony? Maybe. 
I had intentions to write birthday cards this year to all the most famous people in MY life... you know, hubs, kids, grands, folks, close family, and I can count on probably two hands how many made it to the mail box. 
Travis Tritt sings a song about the best of intentions, having them and failing. There's a melancholy to the song I love, and there's a kindred song in my heart. I have so many good intentions. Maybe too many. So many I don't know where to start or what to prioritize and so nothing happens. Nothing but intending to, which seems so far away from being intentional, but they're related right? One is the thought, one is the execution?
Here I am being intentional about walking or hiking AT LEAST two miles six days a week. I'm on day three... let's see how long I can keep this stretch going. 
Here I am being intentional about writing, by keyboard or pen, fifteen minutes six days a week. Thing is both of these I love... to move and to wonder... to wander if you will, in body or mind.  
Here I am at the end of fifteen minutes.
Breathe... 
Verse of the day: Nehemiah 8:3 - It inspires me, the word of God!