You were here, and then gone. Taken from me at 10:02 pm. My father called and gave me the news, his voice raw and quavery.
I stood there, stunned. Like in the aftermath of a camera flash, where you stand there... temporarily blinded.
I woke the morning of your funeral, stood up and fainted. Tried again, fainted again. My husband read the verdict: 104 degrees.
I could NOT miss your funeral. But I did.
I watched the clock in disbelief as 1:00 came and went.
Nine years later, who knew that an absence could weigh so much?