My dad comes to mind in ordinary moments. This morning, for example. I decided to make coffee and reached for the big can that he surely got on sale I brought to my place from his apartment. I was scooping the teaspoons into the filter, and I felt my heart go heavy. It had been an ordinary moment when he bought this can. He had used it several times, made his first cup of the morning, a life long ritual. There will be no more ordinary moments for him. And in my shadowing his movements this morning with that particular can, my ordinary moment paralleled his, and it was suddenly, and passingly, sad.
These ordinary moments remind me of the nano space between his having been here and now not. And of the same for me, for us. It is not a morbid observation. Really, more, it is that I am trying to grasp it, make sense of it, here, now. I believe in a life to come. But in the here and now, when I cannot see that eternal life, in which I believe, maybe more it is hope, fervently, it seems incongruous to go on day after day amid ordinary actions and interactions and then you stop. You just stop. It's hard to get your head around that. I think it is pretty clear you are, I am, not supposed to, or I would not function. It's better that the moment passes, and it just coffee again. And I go to Church and remember the More.
1 comment:
So perfectly captured, Djinna, that moment of grief we experience in the ordinary things. I know it well. M E
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