6.14.2011

sinking

Sometimes I think I can hear the time whooshing past, but really only late at night when everyone is sleeping and the clocks tick loud. And it doesn't sound like whooshing, really, more like a swirl and a hum and a settling sinking-in.

I went in my Grandma and Papa's house today. Nothing in the house had changed from the day she died. Her coffee cup was in the sink. But she was gone so I guess everything had changed. I put my hands on her vanity next to her lipsticks and lotions and creams and brushes and I could ever so slightly feel her vibe, her her-ness, it was right there and yet it really wasn't. She wasn't. She isn't.

I am in a hotel room now and it never gets quiet enough in hotel rooms to hear the time whooshing past. Tomorrow I will be back in my bed, listening to the swirl and the hum, letting them dull the edges and sharpen the sinking-in details.

12 comments:

  1. Oh honey. This is beautiful. You are beautiful. Still so sorry for your loss.

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  2. I remember in grade school we had clocks in the classrooms that didn't actually tick, it was just one continuous motion around and around. I always felt like time moved faster when I stared at them.

    You have my thoughts Erin!

    xo

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  3. Aw, sad, but not scaring me away. I love your words and your heart. Your family is lucky to have you.

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  4. i like when you write sad things. I'm not sure if it scares people away really, but it's arresting. the internet is so full of helium balloons and pink cupcakes and tra la la, that it's hard sometimes to switch gears and read something strong and heartfelt and then write a comment about it.

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  5. Oh, sweet girl. This is really beautiful, and I'm not scared off at all when you write about sad things.

    This reminds me of a StoryPeople story, Value of a Nickel:
    I buried a nickel under the porch when I was 8, she said, but one day my grandma died & they sold the house & I never got to go back for it. A nickel used to mean something, I said. She nodded. It still does, she said & then she started to cry.

    Thinking of you. xoxoxo

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  6. My heart. I just feel you in this in so many, many ways. And I'm just so sorry for your hurting. We'll sit with you in it, don't you worry. We're all sitting in our own ...

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  7. Oh, Erin. I'm so sorry.

    She wasn't there and she isn't there, but in the things she left behind, she still speaks. She asserts who she was, what she loved, how she lived, where she put her coffee cup after her last sip. Knowing those things will be displaced, finally, is a blow.

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  8. Nothing had been moved in their house? That must have been both comforting and upsetting. Sometimes hotel rooms can be so lonely, or can accent loneliness so harshly.

    i remember when we went to La Porte in seventh grade. It was an adventure. Erik carried a couch by himself. Thinking of you...

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  9. I love that you could feel her her-ness, even if it was for just a blink.

    Happy Belated birthday dear one.

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  10. I appreciate how open you are, it takes a lot. I'm so sorry for your loss.

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  11. You have a way with words. You took me back to after my grandfather died....not in a bad way, though. It's been so long. But, that limbo...that feeling of them being there but not. I remember that. And, the hum of night. There's something oddly comforting about it.

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  12. this is beautiful. and the fact that you still feel her while time whooshes by. sometimes i think i miss the last little tendrils of things because i'm so focused on the whooshing.

    *oh, and no iphone, sadly. it's an android. which means no instagram for me. le sigh.*

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