In Between Time

Death is a weird one.

In the past number of years, most of the deaths in my immediate life have all come via a phone call while I am at the library. 

That period of time between when you find out about a death in a public realm, and when you have arrived to a private realm (home and the like) and are finally able to let go, is a strange one.

I'm writing to you now from within that period of time.

Here I am, sitting at my desk in the library, having just received word about 30 minutes ago.

What do you do?

I've downshifted my work to be taken from that labeled more "MINDLESS" than other work. 

I've kept my back to the door as I work, my eyes tearing up. Welling and stinging, but not quite ready to come out. 

There is a shock component that always exists in this period of time.

Instead, a constant and perpetual wetting of the eyes.  Like allergies minus the itchiness. A lump in my throat. Heat upon my cheeks because they are warming to push the tears out.

That last time I saw her. 

Not the emails we have been writing but that last time I saw her.

She knew.

She saw what I had only hoped that someone would. 

(Times two, really.

Times a million.)

The depth of her gaze.

She knew.

And I could feel her heart go out to me.

I felt that.

A rarity in all that surrounded us that evening.

I can only imagine how it has been. 

The thirty some years past losing the love of your life.

But I remember your gentleness. 

How it was wrapped in directness. 

And I take that with me.

Because you are who I got that from.

And now

I just need

to make my way home.




k.

(image:  Kathy Jones via workman tumblr)