Taxes are due. Despite knowing such things happen when making use of a stash meant for tomorrow, it still stings.

We procrastinated, not wanting to know, not wanting to let go.

Of money.

It's just money, I tell myself as I crunch numbers.

Then an e-mail: Please pray. She's in a coma.

I pray. I crunch numbers.

Hours later, a text: "She's dead." That's all it said.

I pray.

And consider that it truly is just money.

An e-mail: My cell phone's on hold; can't afford it.

Cancellations. No subs. No plan. Times three.

A phone call: She could die, Mom. Please pray.

I pray.

And $30 for half a tank of gas?

It's just money.

A voice mail: He's in the hospital. Can't figure it out.

A text: "I can't do funerals."

Another text: She's in ICU. Broken bones, sternum, neck. ATV.

I pray.

A conversation: The former rental, now residence? Red dust. Brown residue. Taped plumbing. Rusted hinges.

Neighbors ... and Google: It's drugs. It's meth. It's $40,000 average to clean up.

Really?

Really?

Low-blood sugar. Comas. Reverse mortgages. Fears of homelessness. Death. Funerals. A mother binds her toddler with tape and leaves her in the shower. Another drives her babies into the water.

And the ever-present wind.

One week.

The center cannot hold.

Really.

Hope springs eternal. Or so I'm told.

Which buoys a heavy heart. Tethered to hope, it's kept from sinking.

A phone call: There's a new plan. They want more info. We're moving forward. This could work.

A text: "Thanks for today! I'm super excited now! I can really see it all coming together."

A plea: We need you. Can you come? We'll pay.

And 69 days become 22.

Hope springs eternal.

The center can hold.

The center did hold.

This one week.

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Today's question:

How was your week?