i don't know. but there are beds made and changed and the way this face is pale and the arms i curl up in. i am made uncomfortable by many things, least of all life. i made a two layer carrot cake. i cried a little in the kitchen. i thought about how i am leaving on thursday and how everyone needs some one to take care of them. why is it that we never make time for that? there are jobs and school and living things to do and deal with, no time left for loving in the plain and simple way that grief allows. i want to be the person who makes time for that. mike is the person making time for that. because, it seems, there is nothing more important.
2 comments:
I understand, Em. Why are we most compassionate when we are scared? At the end of a life? Why can't we learn to love in time, as Mary Oliver asks in her poem, The Visitor. You're so wonderful. I love you.
p.s. I think the chocolate pudding you sent got lost in the mail.
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