The morning was soupy, in very many ways. The air was thick and opaque and for a moment I thought we might have school-bus delays. Still, we managed to leave the house by twos this morning, no one late, no one hollering, and still everyone (myself included) moving as if the world were tied to our tails. We moved slowly, but we moved.
And this is how we mend, is it not? Through soupy fog we put one foot out into the world, and then another, perhaps a hand or two, and the head. But last to step through the soup, I think, is the heart which always lives in more than one realm. The heart holds the memories and the desires, the past and the future, and it lives there, moving back and forth and forth and back and then, sometimes, sits still and sees the moment the rest of the body is in.
The heart sees the feet carrying the body forward, doing the job they must of simply planting one in front of the other. It sees the hands fixing dishes of food that will most likely go uneaten, or throwing baseballs to a boy. The heart hears the stories told by the head about he who is gone and is tugged back into memory, into that other place where he is not gone, has never left. But then hears the head finish the story with a sigh that brings the heart back here, to the present, where it sees the work those other parts are doing to move forward. She sits still, if only momentarily, and rests enough in this moment to mend, bit by bit by little tiny bit.
Funny where the fog takes you, huh?