Would that there were a curious boogie man of convenient construction, vile enough to be a lightning rod of our fears and angry rebukes, sweet enough to offer safe haven for the friends we won’t see anymore. A creature, in short, onto whose shoulders we can heap the vast coldness of reality in whatever way we might want to. We might shake our fists at it, tearfully; or we might as easily close our hands solemnly, tearfully, and remind ourselves that this is for the best.
I picture a woman with many heads, cradling our once treasured ones with all the she can muster. Possibly a sterile woman, a lonely old woman or our daughter, waiting for our offerings of others that have touched our lives, how can we be afraid of the unknown without being anxious? Ella’s soul is lingering in the void of life as we know, waiting for her family to form in the state that she maintains. How can we be so selfish as not to allow all that are here, to be there?
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