The days have settled into a rhythm now. Mornings are crisp, the sky pale and cloudless. By afternoon, the sun warms the walls, the earth, my skin.
Rain is rare.
But when it hit in December, it hit hard—relentless sheets that turned my driveway into a shallow lake.
I watched as the water pooled, lingering long after the clouds cleared. It didn’t drain, just sat there, thick with silt and gravel. Stubborn, stagnant. A breeding ground for tiny mosquito larvae, twitching in an inch of murky water.
Spanish soil is strange like that.
Bone-dry in summer, cracked and unyielding. Then suddenly, too much rain and it won’t absorb a drop. It runs off in torrents or stays put, refusing to sink in.
After a few chats with my new expat friends, I’ve been pointed toward a solution—resin binder for resin-bound floor surface. Supposedly, it allows water to drain while keeping the ground stable, stopping the garden paths and driveway from turning into a swamp. It holds onto moisture just long enough before letting it go.
Sounds useful.
Sounds like something I could learn from.
The garden, as always, is teaching me things. The foxgloves keep their quiet battle against the heat, their leaves curling at the edges but holding on. The primroses are not as bold as they once were, but they’ve stopped looking shocked by the sun. And the shamrocks—stubborn as ever—have started spreading.
A slow, creeping takeover.
Like me, adjusting in ways I didn’t expect.
This morning, as I watered the plants, I thought about how far I’ve come.
A year ago, I was still in Ireland.
Still wading through grief so thick I could barely breathe. Still unable to imagine a future beyond the weight of losing Bryan.
Now, I have a handful of friends. A small but growing circle of people who make the evenings feel less empty. Last night, I had dinner with a mix of expats from different corners of the world. We shared plates of tapas, swapped stories about Spanish bureaucracy, and debated the best place to buy proper teabags.
It felt… normal.
The ache of missing Bryan hasn’t gone. It still finds me, some mornings, some nights. I still wake up reaching for him, still feel the weight of his absence in the quiet spaces.
But the grief is different now.
It has softened, made room for other things.
Later today, I’ll call about the resin-bound surfacing. The idea of handling it all in Spanish is daunting, but there are English-speaking contractors. I’ll figure it out.