open door

I marked Saturday as a day of rest. Visiting Rich, preparing some food, a walk, paying bills, some cleaning, some learning, perhaps write, a list for the coming week -- nothing more, just a day of rest.

I received what I needed.

I was flat-on-back sick, doing none of what I planned except drinking tea and eating some food, none of which I could taste.

A bug, I know; but I prepared a good home with an unlocked door. What this bug saw -- okay, I know viruses don't "see" but this is metaphor, just metaphor -- were Times Square-sized lights: NO ONE HOME.

For the Saturday and the days following (though, slowly, bug's bags are packing) I have been trying to move back. No -- not back. There's no place to go back to, as much as I feel and fantasize. Who I once was is gone, what I once thought can't be tasted, and although this has happened so many times before -- every day, a little -- holding on to what isn't prevents digesting what is.

What is: Rich is dying, perhaps slower than expected but it doesn't matter much if it is tomorrow or next month or even later. It will be too soon, and I won't be ready, and he surely isn't. Neither one of us is ready to open the door, even if there is no lock.

Candace