The Ending of Things

Pensive is my mood today. In the midst of a busy week, sad news reached me in the middle of the night and I've just begun to allow myself the time to process the shock of it. I sit in front of a warm wood stove, pen poised over a piece of my nicest stationary as I look inward to translate my emotion into words of comfort. My children are occupied with play, completely unaffected by the gray sky, the snow frosted air nor my quiet mood. It's all I can do to pull myself away from the washed out color outside and look inward.

Every year, as the leaves drop from the trees and the tamaracks glow yellow, melancholy memories filter through my mind like a disjointed slide-show: friends lost to slow, cancer-eating death; relationships permanently marred by thoughtless, angry words; moving from a secure future for one that is unknown and fraught with the fear of possibility; the unexpected exit of a beloved family member. I feel bereft of words to express myself.

Bordering on desperation, my mind continues to seek connections, looking for a story among the randomness of life, even as I try to rationalize the symbolism of a season that seems pockmarked by regular journeys toward death.

Yet, I am unable to share these memories with a man and his children, thousands of miles away who so desperately need comfort. My memories are meant only as a conduit for empathy, but I cannot find the words to truthfully express that emotion. It paralyzes me. I decide to write the following:

I'm so sorry. We love you. I'll call you soon.

It's not enough, but it will do.