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It sneaks up through little things, in the small absences in the midst of the peace for which you hoped.

The absence of waiting for the phone call, the lack of the missed heartbeat each time the phone rang, the lack of the need to have the phone constantly on, constantly near, just in case today was the day it all would end.   

The absence of that someone who really means it that you can call at ANY time.

The absence of anyone that could help even if it were not too late to call.

A few days ago I went to leave comments on my nephew's new blog pictures (he kept sending bulletins asking for comments).  Several were of him playing bass for my mom during my last visit there.  The painting of blue flowers behind him, my mother just off camera in her maroon recliner, her oxygen tank ticking like a metronome for my nephew's music, all come back with vividness that exceeds my present moment.

My last and final visit.

I realized it was all gone.  The painting, the chair, my mother.

And now the house.  

Today, I received an email.  "Closing complete!"  We prayed for a quick sale despite a market so slow it looks like mercury in retrograde.  A miracle.  It sold in a month.

Over my quick weekend trip to Florida for my sister's wedding, I contemplated going there, one last time.  I thought I needed to see the emptiness to believe.  I never made it; it was a hectic weekend.  Yet, I know it was a choice, from fear and denial.  

I had signed the papers, I got the email.  Even empty, it is not mine to walk into.  It was the place I was always guaranteed to find shelter and love and acceptance.   

Like this feeling, I don't know how to end this . . .