Even coffee can’t cut through this morning’s fog.
Some mornings, the fog rolls in before my eyes even open. Today was one of them.
It wasn’t exhaustion, or lack of motivation. It was the ache of not knowing exactly how to start the day. As if the instructions had been misplaced. Somewhere in the night, the wiring shifted, and I awoke unsure of where to begin.
Even coffee couldn’t cut through it.
I sat for a long while, feeling the slow encroachment of what I now think of as revenant webbing—ghostly strands of something old, creeping back into the present. I forget so much of the past now. Entire chapters slip away, often without a fight. The war, for instance, is largely gone—except for when it isn’t. Except for when it returns in dreams that jolt me awake, heart pounding, breath shallow.
But oddly enough, I’m okay with forgetting most of it. There’s grace in not having to relive pain on repeat. In some ways, the webbing has done me a favor.
I recently found out I have a gene mutation that affects the buildup of tau proteins in the brain—one of dementia’s early calling cards. The VA discovered it while testing my heart. Funny how the heart and brain seem to take turns whispering reminders of mortality.
Still, here’s the good news: the present hasn’t abandoned me.
I may lose parts of yesterday, but I remember the laughter of my grandkids. I remember the way my wife looks at me over coffee, book in her hand, the same eyes I’ve known for decades—calm, kind, unwavering.
I still write.
I still chase numbers in my statistical models.
I still laugh—really laugh—when the moment surprises me.
And I still feel the deep, quiet joy of being called “Papa.”
There’s a strange kind of peace in this stage of life. A fierce gratitude. The revenant webbing may come and go, but joy is still here, brightly present. And maybe that’s all I need—what’s right in front of me.
The ache is real. But so is the love. So is the meaning. So is the now.
And so, even as the threads tighten, I will continue to choose joy.
Even if, one day, I forget that I once made that choice.
