Visits

Lately, I have been thinking of Meg. The armored trucks are the trigger. And it never fails that every other day, or every day, I see one parked outside of some or other business, just waiting there quietly for the attendant to do his job. They are all young men.

In September, it will have been two years since she died. I think of the time that has passed--how it has been empty, and how it has been full. I think of that long, arduous phone call with Laura--which saved me in the moment. Me sitting on the edge of my bed, periodically sobbing and asking question after question after question--none of which had any answer.

The weeks following her death, after clearing out her apartment, after the services in Chattanooga and Massachusetts, people would call or email and tell me of a moth that appeared and wouldn't leave. Or a tiny green grasshopper that sat patiently on their leg and made them feel at ease. There is Jennifer's pigeon movie. They all said what a comfort these small appearances had been, these vague, soothing messages from the natural (spiritual?) world

That first night alone in my apartment, I felt so full of Meg, so surrounded by her that it nearly hurt to take a breath--I had no more room to expand. She was in every molecule, in every painting on the wall. She was in my head, literally. She was behind my eyes, using them to peer out, to point me in various directions. All of this has only become clear to me in the last several weeks--now, 2 years later. Why hadn't I thought of all this before?

I know all this now. If everything I know to be true were to vanish, I would still have the understanding that all that pressure, all that focus and nearly/almost/bordering on physically unbearable--it was her. She was there. It was Meg.