I should have claimed sleep an hour ago but conversations still pended and emotions roiled. Now I have quietened my soul. I think about Joanna who inspired this blog by her selfless acceptance of those around her. I have not visited her resting place for several weeks. I have been traveling and I have also been daunted by the rain. But I think of her.
By and by, I shall fetch a dozen of the roses which she loved so much, and I will lay them on her stone. I will say, Oh, Joanna, I miss you so. And then I will run my fingers on the headstone beside hers, beneath which the ashes of my favorite curmudgeon rest. I will say, Jay, you old so-and-so, I didn’t bring you a cocktail. And I will picture him smiling. He would reply, It’s okay, honey, I know you love me. He did say this to me, many times in his final weeks, the last time in a raspy voice two days before he passed.
It’s eleven o’clock, at the east gate to paradise, and all is well.