Sunday, January 8, 2012

a story in 2.5 parts

2.5. Today is 2.5 years. I don't usually think in years. It is hitting me. It is hitting me and I cannot stop crying.

 I was at work today. Looked up at the clock just as the time hit 11:35 am, the last time I saw you alive, my love, two freaking point five years ago. I could not stop crying. Washing jars and bulk tanks, sanitizing same, carrying boxes, cleaning off eggs, heating milk, cooling milk - crying. As I was filling the jars, crying again, I sent a text to a friend to just say - it is two and a half today and I cannot stop. Cannot stop. We sent some texts back and forth about the secret ingredient in this week's yogurt orders being widow's tears, and whether that would make it like the scenes in "like water for chocolate," and all of our customers would find themselves overcome by tears and sadness when they open up their jars.

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And just then, as I was crying and laughing just a tiny bit, my step-son called. He was driving down the highway and started describing just-happened events to me in great detail: so I'm on the highway, and I'm looking at the sky. There are all these clouds, the sky is mostly clouds, and then there was one break in the sky - this one beam of light, he says. So the beam of light shot through this one cloud, and the cloud it lit up looked exactly like two people, one sitting with their back against the other's chest, you know, like one has his arms around the other. Everything else was dark except for that one part. And you know what it looked like? It looked exactly like that photo of you and dad together on the couch, you know that photo that Nana took when you guys were there, the one with his arm around you. It looked exactly like that. So I had to call and tell you.

So through tears and laughing, and whilst balancing the jars I was still filling, I told him - well, you have impeccable timing, as I am sitting here at work and I cannot stop crying.

The rest of our conversation went on as normal for us. You are never apart from our words, my love. We talk about you all the time. Your son is pretty neat. I am so glad for him, to have him here with me. And nice one, babe, with the clouds and the timing and the method of delivery.

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and the .5 part of this story - I finished up my batch of widow's tears yogurt, cleaned everything, and was ready to head home when one of the owners came out and told me they will be laying me off in three weeks. Could be bad, could be a gift. Too soon to tell.


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Two point five my love. That is crazy talk. But it feels better to be sad like this. Better than the blank, angry, clueless, shut down person I often am. It feels softer, better, to be sad.

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8 comments:

  1. I know there's nothing I can say. Just wanted to let you know my heart goes out to you on this hard day.

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  2. "It feels better to be sad like this". Word.

    Sorry about the layoff. I hope it turns out to be a gift. I am so impressed that you have that attitude.

    Take care of yourself.

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  3. i, too, am equally impressed with your attitude about being laid off. i would personally be frantic and hyperventilating. keeping you in my thoughts, which sounds so lame but it's all i have. if i lived closer, i would sit and listen to you rant and rave, or sit and listen to you not speak. either way, i would sit with you and keep you company if you wanted it. i wish you peace.

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  4. yes. better to be sad.

    *
    and how wonderful, that jake noticed that light, and that he called, right then.

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  5. weeping with you Megan...
    I am so sorry...2.5 sucks!
    *
    c

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  6. i'm sorry megan. this is really pretty writing though. and i sense a turn in the language- a freedom to be sad in a more vibrant way? hard to articulate- but it's in there.

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