By all appearances, I became a deadbeat blogger again.

My silence wasn't accidental. The past six weeks have been a clanging of extremes, and I haven't quite found that spot between mirthful and miserable that most people term normal…but I'm getting closer. It comes down to this: at the end of the day, I will always be an introvert…and I haven't decided how I feel about everything yet.

For most of my life, I thought introvert meant shy and extrovert meant outgoing. I hated admitting introversion because I thought it insinuated meekness…weakness. I learned a couple of years ago during a communications course that introverts simply process events and information internally as opposed to externally. I can definitely admit to that…and I consider myself neither meek nor weak.

I read a story a few weeks ago. The author compared life to a ride on a carousel. I don't really see the full parallel, but I haven't been able to shake the thought. Carousels seem so ever-pleasant, dreamy, tempered, predictable…but life isn't really like that, at least not all the time. Maybe I'm amused by the idea of a merry-go-round life.

I'm only amused and not wistful because nothing worthwhile should be that easy. We should have to work for the good, or we take it for granted. Never assume that happy times are standard-issue; instead, revel in them, and know that they are fleeting. Take mental snapshots and file them away because they will be there for you visit always. Loss gives you new eyes: they are the ironic takeaway from heartache. They appreciate.

I have lived the last six years with these eyes, and my heart is full—at this moment, painfully so. I started January with a relatively spontaneous getaway to Los Angeles where we celebrated our first anniversary in lavish fun. I ended January with a completely spontaneous trip to Orlando where we tried to make sense of the sudden death of Nick's father. His passing stole my air, and I haven't found my breath yet. Considering that I've only known him for six short years, I can only imagine how the rest of the family is feeling.

So much is going right in my life, yet so much will never be right again. A friend of mine from high school lost her father early February. I saw her note first, and my heart ached for her—his death, too, was unexpected. Then the funny interweave of life pounced on me.

My father called me later that day. The emotion in his voice was palpable. I could barely understand him at first…but eventually I understood that Bruce—my Bruce—had passed away. I was immediately upset, for he was a universally likeable man, and we need more of him in our world. My father kept saying, "He was my age…Laura, he was my age…"

It hit me somewhere between the conversations with both my father and my friend that the two situations were a little too similar to be chalked up to coincidence: we were all mourning the same man. I saw her last Thursday, and I could see everything she was feeling in her red-rimmed eyes. The family held a party for him yesterday, and I know that now begins the hollow period. It's that space of time when there's nothing left to do but let it sink in.

And I think we're all residing there right now, not quite looking for new real estate yet.