All day, it rains.
Dog and I take the old path through the woods, past
the troll tunnels and under the trees with spindly, moss heavy branches. They
remind me of tarantula legs.
Attempts at waterproof don't work. I am drenched
before half way. It is good to be here though, where the leaves of spring are
lately unfurling, where the light reaches even under the thick pine. On the way
back we visit the river. Dog swims after sticks. Bird acrobats flip over the
water's surface.
At home, the kettle bubbles. Everything seems so
ordinary. I get changed into dry work clothes and off I go and act as though
everything is ordinary, everything is fine.
Rain falls heavier. I drive home slowly, over a slick
of precipitation and bumps of tree shrapnel.
'After 24 hours,' my friend tells me, later this evening; weary from her
hospital vigils, her voice echoed by poor reception: 'that's when they can
register his death.'
We sigh. 'If you feel relieved, don't feel guilty.'
'Remember when I met him?'
We smile. Trying to be so cool, she accidentally burnt
his arm.
He fell in love.
Comments
My condolences to you and your friend.
You'll be in my thoughts.