Saturday, July 19, 2008

Stay (Faraway, So Close)

At internment, just as the sun started burning hot and still through summer afternoon clouds, when they lowered her coffin into the dirt, the wind blew up like crazy.

I have greater hope in the belief that perhaps, maybe, we do go on.

I never witnessed a man love a woman, a husband love a wife, so much with words shared from a pulpit. Last kisses and touches, hands shaking as pictures were pulled from a breast pocket and tucked into silent, folded hands. I had to look away, stare into my lap, such a personal, intimate moment. And, as we do, I reflected it back on myself for a selfish moment, wondering if I'll ever be so worthy. So cherished.

I don’t know the answer yet.

I know I want more laughter than weeping when my time comes for gathering and goodbyes. Secretly hope for standing room only.

And more hand holding right now.

Soon, I may pick up the phone to call her for lunch before realizing that’s no longer an option.

I know peace is better than ongoing pain.

5 comments:

Miz UV said...

I'm sorry for your loss, Jodie. Yes, peace is better than pain, and when the pain gets bad enough the issue is only academic because you'd do anything to make it stop, but we still miss them anyway.

Joe the Troll said...

So sorry for your loss. I've seen too many go already, as well.

JodieKash said...

I’m grieving for me now, not her, because she cared about me. She made me matter. Even in the hospital, white as the bed sheets, she asked about me. How I was dealing with a still fractured family. The boys in my crazy life. I always thought I was a special friend, all the lovely, just-between-us things we shared. Found out she could do that with everyone. She was always in tune. And a broad. She swore like I could. She was my older sister and my cool Aunt and my Mom, and she always smelled really good. When my Dad died, she found a comp seat on a plane for me in an hour, like it was nothing and everything. And she didn’t question when I didn’t take it. I could write all night and still not get it all out.

Don said...

You were blessed to know her, and this means you're still blessed.

Cheryl said...

I know you know that I feel your pain. I have random times of tears here & there, and just realized today that I should probably delete her email address from my address book & her phone number from my PDA. I remember doing that for my mom & dad. It's a weird, somewhat final feeling. But, ya know, I'm always willing to be a stand-in mom.

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