Carrying On

I don't know if I have any readers anymore, it's been so long since I wrote.  In the past few months, I've learned to live from day to day, which doesn't really give way to writing deeply every day.  I was too busy to mull over the thoughts that came forth, that sometimes woke me.  I closed my eyes and drifted back into a dreamless sleep.  And after awhile, it became easy to just move through the days without much thought for anything other than what to feed the kids, where to walk the dogs and how to get the mounds of work on my desk into a reasonable pile.  I spent the last three months - - - the entire summer- - - too busy to notice anything else.

So now, why do I write?  On this lonely Tuesday after Labor Day, why do I write?

It's not as much fun to go through a day if I refuse to think about the workings of the day, and refuse to write about them. . .

A good friend of mine lost his brother last week.  To a bee.  An allergy that took his brother's life. 

I didn't know how to react.  I cried most of the day at work  - - - painfully aching for him and his loss.  I was dressed and ready to go to the wake, but I couldn't.  I couldn't do it because I knew that I wouldn't be able to walk both legs into that funeral home.  I knew that I would stand outside the big wooden doors and cry. 

So I didn't go.  I waited for him to come into work.  I bought him a coffee from Starbuck's (like I do at least once a week), and I went outside the office with him and we talked.  He told me about getting the news and the hospital room.  He told me about the funeral and the huge number of people that showed.  He talked about his son taking it very hard.  He told me about his parents' grief, and his own.  He mentioned how tight he and his three brothers are, how the family is full of hard workers, and how his parents taught them all that.

It was a script I might have written.

And he cried.  And I cried.  And we hugged.  And it was a Friday. 

And so, I said, "What are you doing for lunch?" 

He kinda shrugged, "Haven't been real hungry.  Why?  Where do you want to go?"

"The Casino?"  I smiled.

His sad eyes opened wide.  Tears formed, and he said, "Yeah, that would be real good."

So we went to the casino after a quick stop at the ATM.  We both had $200 to blow.  We each put a $20 into the slot machine.  After three tries, we were up $300.  We high-fived and giggled, genuinely enjoying the moments beyond the shadowed corners of grief.

As it turned out, after nearly three hours, we both lost our money.  When we hugged good-bye, he said, "Thanks for being a good friend." 

The thing is, it was easy because, though we are just co-workers and have only known each other about three months, he's the one I go to when I need a break because he's got a sense of work ethic, and kindness, and genuineness that I simply adore.  And he has the eyes of my brother, whom I miss every day.  The color may be off, and they are on a completely different face, but the lightness, the shining brilliance of them, is there.

Today, after we chatted for a few seconds, I sat in my office and thought about how sad his eyes were today.  That same kindness and genuiness is there, but his eyes were so very sad.  It was like looking into the eyes of my siblings and my parents during those first couple of years after our losses; and some days I still see it in my own eyes.

Yet, I carry on.  He'll carry on.  We'll all carry on.

There is nothing else that can be done.

So carry on, carry on, through all the shadows and darkness, through the movements forward and back, and deeply through the hours that fill the days. . .