“How will they make it through the next two months,” she said, almost imperceptibly, thinking of his parents.
“How did they make it through last night?” I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
If I were of a hippy persuasion, I would think that the universe was trying to tell me something. Okay, maybe I’ll admit to thinking that perhaps it is. I won’t however, admit to any hippy leanings.
The last five months have been hard. Tear-inducingly, itchy-scratchy-shouty frustratingly, miserably hard. I have gone through the griefly motions of the deaths of three people I adored in that time. And I’m not good with grief. Not at all. And I’m lucky, I have people who’ve helped me through, dealt with my snot and buckets of tears. For them, I am eternally grateful.
The thing is, though, that they were all old. Or older (Joe was only 64). Not that it makes it any less heart-wrenching, but yesterday I learnt of the tragic death of the 12-year old son of friends. And that was the bitter cherry on the top of all this universe-shouting-shit-at me.
It ripped me up, tore me to shreds, scattered me.
It reminded me, again, of the fragility of life. It reminded me of how important it is to tell the people you love, that you do. To do the things you love. All. The. Time. It reminded me that it’s unbelievably unimportant that my hair is cut, if I’m late for tea, if my pants aren’t ironed properly, if it means that I’m spending time with those I love.
Because, really, what matters in the greater scheme of things is not getting my cellphone upgrade sorted, not updating my Stalkbook profile and checking on others’, not even playing my Scrabble moves.
What really matters is love. The whispered kisses, the fluttering kisses, the lingering kisses.
Yes, universe, I heard. Now stop it.