Release

What did she mean, when she talked about release? It was after telling us that the festival was over. Her festival. Her life. Soon after, she died.  It is all so final and I know that it is over. And yet, if she called me up whispering, "Sweetheart", I wouldn't wonder.  Wouldn't be surprised. Hers was a life with staying power. With constant messages.  So much subtext, that it was the only content. I have her reading glasses on my dining room table. The book she never finished. Her clothes are now in my closet. Her jewelry tucked safely away. How can I give away these parts of her? The shell with the label, "Clothes Horse"- making fun of her or me? The silence that comes with death, co-mingled with her scent, invades my bedroom now. She is here and everywhere. She is nowhere.

Trying to find a middle ground, I keep falling lower and lower. Nothing holds. Everyone sends me flowers. But it is only a matter of time and those flowers will wilt and die, as well. The life they once lived still visible. Barely. And then I will be left to rinse out the vase. Throw away the stems. Once again, left with the void of what was once living.

It's a choice now. Run away or stay. Breathe in the scent that won't last much longer. Finger the silk and cashmere. Say goodbye. It is tempting to run. To leave everything behind. But I will not. In her death, I, too, was transformed. And after all, when she talked of release, maybe she was pointing the way for me.