I showed up at 8:30, bending my schedule for this final goodbye. She stood there waiting, a curious smile on her face. I looked into it, was sad to see none of the depth. She did not understand, simplicity haven taken her. I try to smile, we go to her room. It's always strange, I think, when people meet and their emotions are in such a different place. Things become more iconic, symbolic, and our social niceities become like a battlefield, or better yet, a small moment when dancing, where a part of us is more awake than a dozen coffees could make our entire being, to sense what's going to come next and lay out a plan. A part of me wonders, why could I not find the paint within her to paint a new beginning? The visit was pleasant enough - she was still present enough, for now, to not ask about what lay beneath my face. As I leave, I feel consoled that this memory is mine alone.
I find it interesting how, when people grieve or suffer, some prefer company of those close to them and some prefer to be alone. I think this is about pacing - those who want to be alone deal and adapt at a different pace than most people, and are thrown off by these differences.
Life as a series of cups of a number of things seems like an appropriate metaphor for much. When cups remain empty for too long, strange things happen.
