Sometimes I wonder why he told me he loved me. I wonder if he understood what that meant. As I sit here in this strange home, I imagine what kinds of memories are woven into the vintage green carpet. I wonder how many tears and heart breaks the walls have watched. The photos are framed by wrinkled fingers. The familiar buildings are still there. The tired bed frame stands, even after the children are gone.
I wonder what there is to learn from the pain that we feel. I wonder what life lesson we're meant to teach our children. I look at his picture, hanging on the wall.
In it he's smiling:
He's happy.
But he's gone.
I try to imagine what his pain felt like. I try to picture him crying, hopeless, in a ball on the floor.
And I see him;
his brow covered in sweat,
his cheeks glistening with salt from tears.
his body, cold, deep within the earth.
Perhaps had he still been here, he'd be sitting across from me. Holding my hand. Telling me it'll soon all be over. For some reason when they tell me those words, it means nothing. For some reason, I feel as though they say it like they're watching a movie, a movie that eventually has to end. Their words bring no encouragement. Their aid brings no comfort. No real relief. I can feel their intentions. Their desires behind their actions. I can sense when their efforts are genuine, and when they're not. I will never understand why people say things they don't mean. I will never be able to comprehend how someone can truly give selfless service to another. And perhaps, in this life I'm not supposed to. But for the time being, it seems to me that it's no longer enough to keep repeating,
"this too shall pass."
Because now, for the time being, I'm almost convinced it's not supposed to.
