My friend S's father died a couple weeks ago. She gave the eulogy yesterday at a memorial service in DeKalb, where he'd been living the past few years. She'd worked things out pretty well with him and consciously worked at growing closer to him since her mother died. S encouraged me to call my own Dad and let him know I care about him and appreciate him, which I am glad to say I did.
As we age and, more notably, as our parents age, we know each of us will eventually have to face losing both parents. And we understand death as part of the cycle of life. It makes sense to us in this context.
Things are going well around here. Mr. Celia, the Boyo, and I are drinking each other in. We're appreciating each other and enjoying the mundane details of living together again. It's that Suite Bittersweet feeling all over again. We've got another four and a half weeks to savour each other, but inevitably, he'll go back to Germany, and the norm will be appreciating each other from afar.
Friday night, Mr. Celia and I went to a birthday party. Lots of long-term friends, and some new friends and VERY interesting conversation. I sat across the dinner table from K, whose adult daughter (a year younger than the Boyo) just moved back in two weeks ago, and we caught up on what the kids are doing. Everybody looked good, positive, upbeat. Good times. Really good.
Today my set is reeling. Saturday afternoon we learned that K's daughter died in her sleep Friday night.
This. Makes. No. Sense.
No drama, no warning, no apparent health problems, no fights, no big mess. Just not breathing when her mother went to wake her up for breakfast. No goddam sense whatsoever.
Go hug your kids. Appreciate the living. I'm off to hug K. Not that it will help much.
No goddam sense, whatsoever.
