One thing invades my thoughts, a terroristic image that attacks, hurts, and hides in the dark: DAVID is DEAD.
I have my faith. I know where he is. But oh, my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Monotonous Life has continued on. I work, I follow-up, I prepare; all for the same great future that he did. Then the 45 seconds of utter hell where I REALIZE. Physical pain, till this point, was non-existent. Emotional Pain… No trauma, no car wreck, no tumor, no disease has come close to this. Nothing in my life. Then the scrim comes down again, the glare of the harsh lights is muted, and auto pilot takes over.
I watch my family, as I am being watched, and wonder if we’ll all make it.
I’m not afraid of strangers. Perhaps I should be. I don’t blame God for not protecting him. I am instead angry that I didn’t know before.What good is a gift that’s easily mistaken for PMS?
I’m not afraid of strangers. I’m afraid of the 45 seconds that becomes a full minute and then five minutes and the hours that follow and the days to come and Oh, God, I don’t think I can
I need to do something! I am SUPPOSED TO do something! There is something I’m not seeing, not recognizing, not remembering: the key to the Agathe Christie novel that’s currently taken over my life. A few things plague me – his glasses, the ring. But the coat. There is something about the coat! And the phone. The Phone! I’m yelling but he’s not answering. Damn it all to hell, David TELL ME! I’M LISTENING, GOD DAMMIT
Yet how much is just my unshakable need to feel useful, to do something, to help somehow. How many clues, how much significance will I see and hear because I need to?
When can I put the book down?
1995-0327