She left her family notes, handwritten on index cards. Bible verses and notes and I would show them but need his permission. It's a collection of the sweetest lady who will never stop teaching. She was their mother, his wife, their daughter, his sister, their aunt, my weird relationship cousin.
It was weird because she was two years older than me and she was bright. Bright as smart but still bright as you know, a light. And there's this shine that do you really want the world to see? Aren't there people wanting to destroy light? Dim those who speak?
Anyway,
she was beautiful from day one and she was sweet and fun and oh, jeff. have you ever felt a loss through another person, looked into their eyes and then just shut down because the very beginning of the pain is so horrid, there's got to be a better word, that you just stop and smoke or make a joke or run like the wind or you (me) have never loved like those two did.
There are walls, physical walls serving as a reminder of what happened.
What happened here?
She showed up looking great like she always did.
She laughed and rolled her eyes at Jeff.
She talked about the kids.
We talked about family.
And we were younger then,
but I never, not for one moment,
thought it would ever end.
but it did.
it did before it was supposed to.
but it never was supposed to.
I've been mad at God on this one. Which is stupid. 'Cause God didn't end it. I did. Her diagnosis was fifteen years ago, or sixteen, or long enough for me to go and listen and be at this place with friends. There is no excuse other than I am stupid and scared.
And selfish to the point that what I lost was time with beauty and light.
If she was here on this porch right now I would turn to her and say, "I should've been smarter. I'm sorry I wasn't smarter."
She would smile and roll her eyes all at the same time. Point her finger at me. Shake it like the great teacher she was. Say my full name then, "you know better."
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