Seeing the world through yogurt-covered glasses
Sunday
Grief is not for the lost, but for the left behind. The lost need nothing. They are ashes and dust, pictures and memories. They are mistakes and regrets. Grief is not for the lost, but for the left behind. Grief is a space in our living. It is a vessel. It is a room, empty of all else. It is a space in the soul, a space we need to breathe. Grief is not for the lost, it is a space for the left behind. Grief is a...Funeral
Saturday. What is Saturday? Saturday is a placeholder. Saturday is a schedule. Saturday is an opening in a schedule. Saturday is a funeral. You wake up in a room full of people telling you how sorry they are. You don’t know how you got here, nor do you know when you got here. Thirty seconds ago it was Monday and you were answering your office phone. Now, you are speaking to a person you haven’t seen...Friday
You step off the plane into a winter of anger and regret. It’s cold in the town of your youth. Much colder than you remember. It’s more grey than you remember. In fact, there’s very little that’s the same as you remember. The town of your youth is exactly the same. Your cousin picks you up at the airport and you decide that the innocuous questions that she asks you are just that. You decide...Thursday
You take the day off on Thursday. You tell yourself that it’s because you have to prepare yourself for 7 hours in the middle seat of a plane. You tell yourself this, but mostly it’s just because you’re suffocating and need some space to breath. You feel like you’ve been at full throttle for weeks, though it’s only been a few days, and your eyes burn as if you’ve been awake for the...Wednesday
You are starting to understand why people need time off to grieve, because the exhaustion you feel this morning is more than you could have imagined. It’s a dark heaviness that pulls you down to a space just a bit beneath the floor. A dark place where bones lay. Another morning of images. The gray sky, eggs on toast, coffee, a blue robe. Snatches of moments driven by a quiet lover as she tends to everything....
I’m John Metta, writer, hydrologist, programmer, Irish flute and banjo player, cyclist, brewer, and a digger of all things tech, and all around friendly guy. Nestled snugly in the Columbia River Gorge in a town called Hood River, I survey the world as my own personal playground. Circle me on Google+