Jill and Todd
Jill and I are in the pause, the hush and intake of breath that follows a sudden death. Yesterday, her brother Todd died unexpectedly. He was only 49 years old. The stillness is intense.
We all do it, I think. We chug through life doing what needs to be done, following routines and prescribed roles day after day. There's comfort in the mundane --- grocery shopping, laundry, lawn mowing, jobs. Even with the certainty that nothing stays the same for long, we walk through days and weeks as though today is the permanent blueprint. Until it isn't.
The phone call marks a break. There was before and then there is after. Before was normal. After, unpredictable. It takes time to adjust, as though the molecules have rearranged themselves into a new shape that is not recognizable in this moment.
Previous losses crowd to the top, loosed from their moorings once more, adding to the sense of disorientation. It's easy to stand for minutes with the refrigerator door open, unseeing, lost in thought. Dogs nudge questioningly, aware that something is amiss. Conversations lapse in mid-sentence.
Gradually, it fills in again, the empty spaces begin to shrink but never disappear entirely. The sudden impulse to text or send a picture doesn't hit as sharply over time.
"He would love that . . ."
"She never got to see . . ."
A sudden scent or sound triggers memories that flood through, stabs of pain, then cleansed and washed away.
Farewell. You leave a self behind that will not be erased in the minds and hearts of those who knew you. Sleep well, Todd, and be at peace.
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