We enter our dark Seattle apartment after a day of flying across the world. We mildly half unpack, we look at the internet, we go to sleep. The next morning, I wake up. The next morning is a week away from the beginning of a cascade of horrible news.
This morning is a week away from the memorial. This morning is five mornings away from flying much of the way across the country, for reasons I wish I could obliterate.
The anxiety rustling in my chest, in my throat, on the series of planes to Mandalay was not the usual travel apprehension. It was the bristles of a real fear: what if it happens when I am here? When I am all the way across the world?
Every time my phone managed to load gmail on the spluttering wifi, I keyed in her address. I gushed about my adventures. Do you know I always want you to know where I am in life, what I am doing and learning?
Death is the reality now, but what is this reality? What is it, really? Am I going to be taught more truths in Ohio? Is that possible, without you? Are we really without you?
When a spark of kind ferocity glints in me, I suspect the answer is no, not really.