Wallowing in post-holiday exhaustion/annoyance/envy/loneliness yet paradoxically grateful to have some alone time, then BAM!–stunned by the unexpected yet unsurprising news that a good friend has died, and suddenly I am so damn sick of being accepting. I think, who came up with this business where people routinely die, just disappear–the roles they played go unplayed, the comfort they gave just evaporates–what a stupid system.
It’s so inefficient. It’s simply bad economics.
Later I’m in the bathroom, my toothbrush clenched in one fist while I’m brushing tears off my cheek with the other. I think, what do I do with this now? With this feeling somewhere between sorrow and anger and befuddlement? I look up into the mirror, expecting nothing, when I hear Craig’s voice. Craig, who has been gone four years now, I hear his voice as clear as if he were standing beside me saying something he said in the spring of ’92 when I was a first-year teacher and he was the night custodian. He said, “I’ll tell you what to do with this anger that make you feel out of control. I’ll tell you what to do: you thank it.”
Written with my Tuesday Afternoon Writing Group. Prompts: holiday exhaustion, blessing in disguise
