and: a life

It is good, and it isn't.

It is good to receive a letter from a former student of Rich's, thanking him for his support.

It isn't good because the letter is addressed to Rich, not knowing that Rich will never read or answer it.

It is good when, at a dinner at a friend's house, another guest recognizes me, although I'm sure we never met.  She makes the connection.  She was the volunteer massage therapist who visited Rich at Hospicare.

"He always spoke of you," she said. "He would just light up."

It isn't good because in the last days Rich doubted if he loved me enough, or at all.  I had no doubts, and couldn't relieve this added agony in his too-big repertory.  Hearing her words confirms what I know -- ouch, again.

It is good when joy and excitement shoots through me, as it does, more and more.

It isn't good because the emotion stops dead, unshared.

So I'm living the "and" life, of wanting and not, of remembering and not, of loving and not.

In not having to choose there is relief.  And not.

Candace