waiting for the plumber

Almost a year.  All that I have planned for the day is a visit from a repairman for the pellet stove.  Why not?  It's hard to get on his calendar, and at least it's practical.  

I am post-ritual.  I've opened every door that I know, and behind all of them is a sheer cliff.  

Then look at photos, a friend suggests.  Bathe in the memories.  

Torture. I don't look.

Ditto for Rich's clothes.  For talking about him.  For not talking about him.

There is no escape, no comfort.  

There is only pain, bathing in it, breathing it in, waiting for the cleaning, waiting for the exhale.

Waiting. That's the job of grief.

Practical, too, in this life alone.  I spend a lot of my time waiting for the plumber, waiting for a repair of this or a cleaning of that.  

This may be the only ritual that matters now.  Waiting -- to be cleaned, to be repaired.

Candace