I'm not ungrateful. Painter's gift is really a reminder to myself that she is not who she pretends to be, and because of that, I owe her nothing but time and distance.
And I wrestle with myself for repeatedly giving you the benefit of the doubt because in the quietest of quiet I know this is your pattern and you aren't going to change. And in the stillest of still moments I find I still care about you and your suffering.
A man cannot live one life fully split between two moments, two gardens. Inevitably they both will be overtaken with weeds. As I continue to tend my garden I recognize we reap what we sow. There are still weeds in my garden. There will always be weeds and they are my weeds. I planted these. I will tend to them.