The old Slack message had been preserved where it needed to be preserved; I did not print it and frame it on the wall.

It had been a beginning.

It did not have to become the decoration around every ordinary morning that followed.

After my father left, I carried a cup onto the porch.

The water was visible between the trees.

The mist had lifted.

Across the bank, a branch moved as a bird settled, then lifted away again.

There was still much to do.