Case of the Mondays....
He looked like Thing 1 or Thing 2 from a distance, with a haircut. When she got closer his smallish frame and unfortunate brown sweater distinguished themselves in her view. His shoulder bag, which weighed down his entire body, gave him an awkward shape from a distance.
Observations on an Afternoon Train
The squareness of his head was offensive, offset in no small part by his casual command of the doorway, alligator-pointed shoes tapping in impatience. He looked like one of those people who would remain purposefully oblivious of train etiquette, luckily the train was not crowded so her indignant rage could not rear it's ugly head. Each time the train stopped and the doors opened, he slouched even more into the entryway, khaki pants and polo-shirted alertness a stark contrast to the tired suits and melancholy stares of the other passengers. Where was he going at five o'clock if not home to eat and prepare for the rest of a cyclical week of habit?
Monday, September 27, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
On to the second stage...
I woke up this morning genuinely believing that I would be ok. That the feeling that I had the day before yesterday would return...you know, minor frustration about a job thing, cautious anticipation about exactly 3 new friendships, joy and relief of my sister's triumph and warmth care and concern for my niece and brother whom I love more than anything, sadness for the end of summer and contentment at my last long Saturday of volleyball. It was a good way to feel, not overly happy but content.
I was naive perhaps-or more likely-determinedly hopeful and willful, that the sheer familiarity of losing one of my best friends in an unexpected manner would cause the process to be easier and quicker. Five years ago when Molly died I was sad in waves, I knew the privacy of sobs and the comfort of friends in the speechless moments, when the pain was a knot in my stomach and the water trickled but more often dried up completely. People turned to me, because they knew of our closeness, they turned to me for comfort and that role made it easier to ease into my own healing. I could forget for awhile while someone else asked why. I knew. I hurt and I knew and I was confidant to see her again and I was thankful that our last words were loving and complete.
This time is different. Harder. Because I live in a community more defined and more enmeshed in the loss of a good man, and because we live in a world where everything happens faster and more digitally, I find myself feeling rushed. As much as I want to scoff at the 5 stages of grief, I was perfectly content to live in denial for a few more days. But here I am exposed to everyone else's sadness, everyone else's experiences and love. And I just want to feel my own right now. And I feel selfish and shameful. I can literally hear him talking in my head right now, saying those ridiculously comforting and goofy things he would always say when I was sad, or struggling. And I want to continue to hear that. But it's really hard to hear him when it seems like everyone else is shouting.
I was naive perhaps-or more likely-determinedly hopeful and willful, that the sheer familiarity of losing one of my best friends in an unexpected manner would cause the process to be easier and quicker. Five years ago when Molly died I was sad in waves, I knew the privacy of sobs and the comfort of friends in the speechless moments, when the pain was a knot in my stomach and the water trickled but more often dried up completely. People turned to me, because they knew of our closeness, they turned to me for comfort and that role made it easier to ease into my own healing. I could forget for awhile while someone else asked why. I knew. I hurt and I knew and I was confidant to see her again and I was thankful that our last words were loving and complete.
This time is different. Harder. Because I live in a community more defined and more enmeshed in the loss of a good man, and because we live in a world where everything happens faster and more digitally, I find myself feeling rushed. As much as I want to scoff at the 5 stages of grief, I was perfectly content to live in denial for a few more days. But here I am exposed to everyone else's sadness, everyone else's experiences and love. And I just want to feel my own right now. And I feel selfish and shameful. I can literally hear him talking in my head right now, saying those ridiculously comforting and goofy things he would always say when I was sad, or struggling. And I want to continue to hear that. But it's really hard to hear him when it seems like everyone else is shouting.
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