On Talking

I've started to wonder sometimes if people are tired of hearing me talk about Meg. Because it's in my head at every moment of the day (mostly) it's difficult to determine how much I'm really talking about it and how much it's just me thinking that I've been talking about it.

Last night, some friends of mine cooked a lovely dinner for Mario and I: big red-leaf salad, good bread, penne with local-made sausage, a zucchini/eggplant parmesean. Lovely. And before we sat down I just started talking about it: "I guess you want to hear about all the Meg stuff?" These friends had plans to drive to Northampton for one of the memorial services, but were unable to make it at the last minute. So, naturally, I feel like it's my job to translate the experience of the memorial services, and all the details of Meg's life, and many people want to know the details, often the exact logistics, of her death: where was she riding, what kind of truck. "Now, what happened?" they ask uneasily.

And because I've told the details so many times, talked about the orange spray painted lines on the pavement which marked the trucks wheels, told how I held my hand on the concrete where her head was, I find myself just dumping it all onto people, throwing it all out at the wrong speed.

How like me to be worrying about other people in a time like this.