Lately it’s felt a bit as if I am suspended in some sort of alternate reality wherein I am unable to get anywhere. I cannot seem to gain purchase at work or at home, at play or asleep. Or just being. I am fretting over what will inevitably (please, please) be some little thing or another rather than the dark foreboding thing my mind makes it. My worry is quiet and under the surface, but coincides perfectly with an abiding obsession for Briar and Avery with death. “Mama, please you promise you won’t go to heaven?” I tried for a while to dance around it and make like I’d never go to heaven, but then I worried about jinxes and let downs. “Honey, it’s…