5. The emptiness aches, but Susan grows and grows around it, like a wound finally scabbing over. She picks up a brush and her lipstick, goes into business with a friend of hers who has a camera, and gets on with her life. Sometimes she thinks about her brushes, her tools, thinks about how Jill and Polly once sneered at them, and that pain is still there; but she has grown, if only in a crooked way, and she can put the hurt behind her.
It's not enough, but it will do.
6. It's funny, the things that are helpful. It's not the goodbyes she does get, it's not the promises to stay and stay safe, it's not even the hellos. It's this: the quiet of the morning in the bedroom while London shakes itself awake, the warmth on the other side of the bed as she reaches over and grabs onto Grace's nightgown, even the foul taste of Grace's morning breath.
The emptiness is always there, but it feels a little smaller in those moments.
7. With Grace's hand in her own, the emptiness is bearable. She has a tether as she walks in this world while the decades roll on; she feels safe and anchored, even when she's alone.
Complacent, the emptiness ambushes her on the morning she rolled over and found Grace's hand cold.
8. Grace is in the ground, near the plot of Susan's family because Susan knows they would have welcomed her in life, so she knows they will do so in death. Susan is old now, has been for a long time, so she knows this hole inside her as near as a friend, like it is just another mourner here at the funeral. It's funny, but maybe it's tolerable now because this is just one more funeral, one more missed goodbye.
9. But maybe this is the truth: Susan's own goodbye is not long in waiting. One day, she falls in the garden; she's dead not long after hitting the ground, and she knows no pain. More than that, though, she knows no fear--this time, she didn't miss the goodbye.
PART TWO; Because I can salvage this, I swear.
It's not enough, but it will do.
6. It's funny, the things that are helpful. It's not the goodbyes she does get, it's not the promises to stay and stay safe, it's not even the hellos. It's this: the quiet of the morning in the bedroom while London shakes itself awake, the warmth on the other side of the bed as she reaches over and grabs onto Grace's nightgown, even the foul taste of Grace's morning breath.
The emptiness is always there, but it feels a little smaller in those moments.
7. With Grace's hand in her own, the emptiness is bearable. She has a tether as she walks in this world while the decades roll on; she feels safe and anchored, even when she's alone.
Complacent, the emptiness ambushes her on the morning she rolled over and found Grace's hand cold.
8. Grace is in the ground, near the plot of Susan's family because Susan knows they would have welcomed her in life, so she knows they will do so in death. Susan is old now, has been for a long time, so she knows this hole inside her as near as a friend, like it is just another mourner here at the funeral. It's funny, but maybe it's tolerable now because this is just one more funeral, one more missed goodbye.
9. But maybe this is the truth: Susan's own goodbye is not long in waiting. One day, she falls in the garden; she's dead not long after hitting the ground, and she knows no pain. More than that, though, she knows no fear--this time, she didn't miss the goodbye.