Grateful / Piano /Hospital. (Patreon)

Hallo loves.

Above: My son, little Ash Palmer Gaiman, 8, underneath the piano that birthed and raised me…and more snapshots from one of the strangest thanksgivings on record (and I’ve had some strange ones).

The piano looks and feels so much different to me tonight.

Austere.

It’s quiet; barely got played tonight.

Time.

Art.

And love.

I’ve spent a lot of the last few days in the hospital, listening to the buzzing and the bleeping bleeps, abiding, breathing, thinking about time, art, love, life and death.

No biggie.

It is never not a good time to be thankful, grateful, for the small beauties and strange kindnesses and bittersweet poems that life chucks at us.

It feels like I’m never out of that poem for very long at one stretch.

Wherever you are and whatever is going on - and there’s always stuff going on - know that you’re not alone in your struggling.

Truly.

It feels so lonely, sometimes. We assemble what we can, how we can.

It’s temporary.

It’s always like this, this endless poetry.

It’s always happening.

And if you need it, I’m sending you my love. I have the feeling some of you could really use the love today. I could. Send it.

This community knows. The love is real.

So is the time.

From under the piano,

from the hospital,

the bedside,

from my heart,

from my art.

Breathe with me.

Love from the Dear Old House

Xx

AFP

P.S.