For the Heart Is Fragile, and Slow to Heal

Today, I bought a dress for the wake.

It's been ten days since my friend was found dead in his apartment. I can talk about him without crying now, mostly, and remember him with laughter.

(Remember when we all played City of Heroes, and I had to add healing skills so we could keep JD alive through an entire encounter, because he loved to charge into the middle of the fight? And remember his amazing costumes? And how he put so much stuff in the guild vault that it was hard to find anything?)

I can look at his art, framed on our wall, and be amazed all over again at how gifted he was. I can read his blog and grin at his pointed wit.

"What if we could accurately predict if a steamy, passionate and torrid love-affair would fail? And what's more, how it would fail ... Who would get custody of the dog? Which pieces of clothing and how many CD's in your music collection would mysteriously leave with your ex?
Well, we might be tempted to opt for a lesser evil ... like being Canadian or something. But how much fun would that be?" ~JD Sparks

But I'm suddenly afraid of the unexpected. Something face-breakingly awful could be waiting for me on the other end of the ringing phone or an unopened message, and I anticipate the worst. Even good news doesn't give me the spark of excitement it deserves. It's as if I'm watching the movie of my life on mute, because I know at some point a monster of shadows and dark is going to burst the door to splinters. The suddenness of his death makes everything feel precarious.

Sometimes it feels as if everyone else has moved on already, as if now we're supposed to be over the shock and sadness and into the quiet haze of decorous grief. But I don't feel decorous, or hazy. I feel like I've swallowed a mouthful of broken glass at a wedding, and I need to smile and talk and go on, even though I'm raw inside.