Shouldn’t I be moving on? Getting to the next project? Why return?
The people. Who
knows when I’ll see them again? If
ever?
And they’re getting together, on May 3d, to celebrate
(in both senses) Franny’s death. So shouldn’t I be there?
The place—there’s still something calling me. The wailing rock. The cracks in the floor. The quality of green and light in a
northern woods.
Or maybe it’s the stillness of a room still questioning—will
she return? Is she truly gone for
good?
Nah—think the room knows.
Maybe it’s me. For yes, the mourning seems about over. She has faded—despite my pulling her back as hard as I could
(a book being a pretty hard tug)—and I felt her slip away a night or two
ago. It was a sound—a grace note,
actually—and there she was, released into the beyond. A tiny ping into
eternity….
And I sort of want to see and talk about Iguanas…. What did they think? How did they feel about it?
Writing it was weird. No, it didn’t feel lonely—but then again, there were some 200 people
(all wearing ID badges) in my life at the time (or most of the time). But also, Franny was there, in a
certain way—if only seeing her words on a computer screen. Or her memory (and mine) on a coffee
cup.
But now is the time I feel alone. There’s nothing to do. The permissions have been submitted or
granted. Like the house, I am empty—waiting
for the next owner, the next occupant who will come, clean, rearrange…
…and settle into the orange chair next to the wood-burning
stove.
