There is still nothing to say, really. I am keeping quiet. As a writer, I believe in the power of words–but even that power has its limits. We’re staring down a stark path with no deviations or meandering offramps. Each of us, with our unique grief, stumbles forward–fast, slow, running, crawling, begging, debating, bargaining, organizing, planning, crying.
We are walking together, but so very alone.
I am struck with the aloneness of it all.
She is dead.
They discuss how…agonizingly, they discuss why. But–she is dead. To me, it doesn’t matter why or how because the result is in front of us and we cannot change it for all the world.
She is gone, all the conversations left unfinished and scattered. Our grief is so strong, we do not even dare to pick up the pieces–the disarray is hers and we do not dare to touch it. To touch it is to change it and make it ours.
On the counter, there was a piece of cheese she had been eating earlier in the day before she died, before the cheese even knew what it would become. No one wanted to move it–it was hers.
To some of us, the cheese hinted towards her eventual return, to others, it was too agonizing to move, it weighed like a house of bricks. We watched beads of sweat form, we watched the cheese curl, darken, wither.
There is nothing we can say, really.