The worst part is this realization that nothing would have been different. We would be less open, less loving, less aware. He would not have changed- and in a way we'd all be blinder for those days. I miss the potential we could have had. I miss the idea that he could have been proud and really said it. I told him that there was nothing that needed to be said, that the words were unimportant. At the time I said that so that I wouldn't cry- so that we didn't become weak together. Now I'm waiting for the day that truly there didn't need to be words.
I find that everything reminds me of him. NYC, 14th street, Cosi Coffee. Warwick is painful, Friendly's restaurant is poignant. I want to show him my pictures- but I also know that without his death those pictures wouldn't exist. After years of feeling like I didn't inherit his art, I finally inherited part of my heart. I want to tell the man on the train to love his children and tell them everyday.
They ushered me away when we got the news. They set up my family distance. It was me without them, out in a parking lot with a nurse hugging me with a name I didn't know. They set up my strength- and they fostered my loneliness. Grief began without me. Maybe there were words to say and its only now that I think that is doesn't matter. That now- when all of it is over that he knows my words- that he knew them then as well. My heart drips like rain through the gutters, it lands in puddles where the concrete meets the grass. Saturated.