The Hour of Passing

A cold rain is falling outside, creating puddles in the empty park across the street.  The weather will worsen; rain turning into snow, temperatures dropping.

What a cold, wet, desolate day.  A day expected from winter – a day expected and appropriate for mourning.

I don’t remember the moment of her passing, but remain haunted by the hour of her passing.  It was an hour we never knew was coming, an hour that scarcely feels real – so much weight on our shoulders, forced to decide between life and death, mercy and suffering, pain and loss.  It was an hour of deep love and so much sorrow.

It was 3 pm…a strange hour.  As Jean-Paul Sartre said: Three o’clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do.

A chimerical hour of being both and neither – a dream that fades.

But the heaviness remains and I keep counting the days since that hour.

7 days, and each day I start over again without her.

Alanis Morissette’s singing my life with her song “Not As We.”

 

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