At a community table at a coffee place laden with the smells of burnt coffee and butter and laden personally with deadlines multiple and far-flung. A reprieve in the shape of a man unprepared for a dilemma meant the jettisoning of the scheduled session and his worry and my secret elation to work on other, pressing matters.
It was that sort of morning. Up at 5, and the time to depart for teaching arriving too fleetly three hours later.
In the midst of the work the sudden tapping of you. It was probably the mention of you and your passing that has sparked this moment.
This still surprises me, that my grief feels under, I hesitate to say wraps, or control.
Because it is neither.
And will be neither, ever.
Photographing Patti Smith for the third time last week she spoke of her grief and it was a lovely and honest recounting of her sudden crushing grief that prevents her, nearly, from crossing a street.
For the longing of the person who was once there, who was a source of comfort and strength.
So what is this grief.
It is, of course, universal.
It is that thing that can kill the living, choke the Joy out of life, to give some energy behind the making of Art, the loving of the living.
I am back in the moment when, as your body left this life that you had, you came to me and said:
"Live! Live! Live!"
 Thank you for the words, the Love, the inspiration dearest Brucey.