My son lies in the bed on the other side of the room in which I call my office as I sit here on my lunch break and write these words.

A thought has surfaced this week, part of a theme of my focused attention, around death and memory.  That going through the grieving process around the death of someone is a kind of coming to terms with the fact there will be no new memories of that person again... but also that these days there are other sources of memories online that can sometimes surprise you.

On Facebook I posted a video and a series of pictures from my Grandmother's house I took back in 2004, years before her death.  My cousins had apparently not seen them before, or don't remember seeing them before and in a way I was able to provide a few more 'new' memories for them of our Grandmother and the home in which she used to live.

In my own mind, her home has not changed since those pictures.  I have not gone back to see changes inside the house.  These pictures and memories are a shrine to her in a way.  Set in stone.

I'm starting to read a book called from Bacteria to Bach and Back.  It is a book on consciousness.  I am sort of in a book club regarding it, but we'll see what form that club takes, and what speed I can read the book while staying focused on it.  Cognisant of what it's making me think, and internalising the messaging.

I have nothing else profound to say today except that my friend's death from earlier in this year still sits on my consciousness and I've been thinking about that formation of new memories thing.  I hate that I will not be able to sit across the table from him again at dinner, or poker, or anywhere and have conversations about life, the universe and everything.

He is now a fixed digit on the cosmic roadmap of this timeline, of this reality.  He is no longer an unplotted equation.  His graph has run its course.

I miss you Jacob.  When I say that I don't mean this moment, exactly, though I do.  Busy with life and 2 children it has been some time since we connected.  What I mean is that I miss the opportunity to continue to know you and watch you and your family grow and change.

You told me on the same night that you were going to be a father, and that you had been diagnosed with cancer.  I mean, shit.  I keep playing the scene from that night in my head.  Us at the table, you saying you had something you wanted to share... I jumped at a guess "You're going to be a dad!?"

You chuckled, and smiled, but your eyes were not fully smiling.

"Well, yeah, but also I've been diagnosed with cancer."

I mean fuck.

I miss you.  I don't know what else to say.