facade

We met at a conference a week ago.  Almost from the beginning, I knew.

The eyes.  They gave away the secret of loss, even as we began talking about other matters.  He was 13 months out since the death of his wife, and we both knew that only one subject was important to us.

Such conversations between those who mourn flow easily, the topics unchanging.  Battles over medical bills, and relationships ruptured, and the absurdity of calling any space "home."


We disagreed over love.  I believe it will come again in the form of another -- not the same, never the same -- because love is not something that can vanish, even if in these days we are numb to its touch.  No, he said; love dies with the person.  


For now, I can't argue.  All the evidence says he is right, while I hold onto a future existence that may be only fantasy.


We didn't have many conversations after that.  He was knocked out with a flu/cold and in bed for much of the rest of the week, and during our last day together he said that, considering I'm only eight months out, I'm doing pretty good.


Facade, I said.  


He nodded.  I didn't have to explain.


Now I have the cold, maybe because it was contagious, or maybe because the body welcomes an opportunity to indulge in just sleeping, just eating, just waiting for a life that once more is the real thing.


Candace