No Words

A house of mourning breathes. There are moments when the air stops moving and the inhale-exhale of conversations catch and the stillness wraps around everything. Spoons stop stirring lukewarm coffee, plates find perfect balance on knees and even the untouched knickknacks telling decades of family stories that sit on shelves, table-tops and mantles, freeze in the moment. And then, just as suddenly, eyes fill and throats tighten and a hand finds an arm or a shoulder and the breathing resumes.

In the early morning, I drive away from such a home, knowing I will return over the next few days, bringing food (always food) and hoping at least some of my love will find its way into their darkness. This was not going to be a celebration of a long life lived fully…this was going to be a minefield of pain and sorrow. Stories will be told, but questions will linger on the periphery and sentences will, undoubtedly, trail off without completion…