Lately, my posts have been weak. Not my witty best. In fact, some of you have accused me of copping out with my posts; tossing up some photos in lieu of real content, generally not giving it my all.

The evidence against me is pretty solid. I appear to be guilty as charged.

But, I don’t know. I feel like I need to plead my case. See, we’ve been a little glum around here. Or, more precisely, I’ve been a little glum. Not really mopey or on the verge of tears. Just glum.

I hate that Mo is dead. Hate it. And, for the past two weeks, I’ve spent a lot of energy trying not to be sad, not to feel angry with myself for having a cat that died at only 12 years old, not to let the thoughts of Mo’s death snowball into thoughts of other, worse deaths. All of this “trying not to” has taken a lot out of me. I’ve had little left for my readers.

But, if I’m honest, it’s been more than just Mo. Two years ago this week, a friend of mine died when she was 7-months pregnant. Her son is growing up without her and, I’ve got to tell you, there are times when I think about that and I feel . . . I don’t even know what. Horrible? Overwhelmingly sad? Whatever the feeling, it is rotten and I can barely put a word to it.

This week especially, I’ve thought about how Denise carried her baby boy for 7 full months and then, nothing. She never got to meet her baby. Never saw heard him cry, never saw him smile. Didn’t witness his first steps, first foods or first words. She’s not here to see him growing up. It’s tragic and I hate it.

And so, in conclusion, I’d like to state that there have been extenuating circumstances that have led to my weak posts. But, I’m starting to feel a little less glum. Perhaps acknowledging my glum state has reduced it a bit. I should be back to my old self in no time. Maybe even tomorrow.

Or the next the day.

Definitely by the end of the week. For real.