Small Life, Slow Life: Joining, and letting go.

We went to a beautiful winter wedding last night. There were twinkle lights in the trees, a delicate silver branch pinned into the bride’s hair. There were Dumbledore quotes and LOTR references in their vows. Because the bride doesn’t like to dance, there was a Nintendo Switch downstairs and a heated Mario Kart tournament happening.

It was perfect.

This morning, I was with my team, on the happiest day of our year: the one day per year we can purchase gifts for others with our discount. Coffee was flowing, people were tallying up their totals and checking their lists. The holiday spirit was so strong and sweet. A co-worker even brought her brand new puppy and we all took turns holding her and cooing.

It was perfect.

I got home and found out that C’s grandmother died at 9:30 this morning.

It was not perfect.

She had not been in good health for a long time, and we all expected this. Everyone had said their goodbyes Friday evening. It was still very sad to let such a legend of a woman go.

I got mad at myself a couple of times today for being petulant and short, shoving dishes around the kitchen and checking the clock at regular intervals and sighing a lot. As though anyone’s death needs to arrive on my timeline or cares at all what I needed to get done on a given Sunday.

I remember, when C and I broke up, wondering how in the world everything kept going on as if nothing had happened, when to me it felt like a giant hole had blown into in the middle of the universe and was sucking the color out of everything.

Tonight, while C was with his family, I took V to the park. I actually forgot my phone, which I said Dammit about in the moment, but ended up being so grateful for, because I could just watch her running and playing and being so happy. This girl, who is 1/8 the great grandmother who left this world today, ran across the baseball field and laughed giddily while saying “Running so fast!” (She was not.) The sun set behind her and she said, “Goodbye Mister Sun, see you tomorrow,” and I took an internal moment to pay respect to the woman we won’t see tomorrow, the woman who made all the choices that resulted in me ending up with my husband and child, watching the sunset on the day that she died.

Rest In Peace, Farhin.

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