If I sit in the front seat of the car with my mom and we come to a sudden stop, she will stretch an arm out across me; attempt to hold me back, to keep me safe. The past few days have been very odd and I find myself longing for that semblance of safety.

A late-night phone call during last week’s downpour, a family friend has died. He was 75 years old. The neighbors saw him raking leaves on the front lawn around 4:00 p.m.; when his wife returned from work an hour later, he was already gone. They had four children, all of whom attended last week’s services. Each of their children has families of their own now; they live in different states, in different communities.  

I cannot imagine what it will be like on the first day when this new widow returns from work to find her breakfast dishes on the counter where she left them, the windows shut tight, the day’s bills still in the mail box. The house in its overwhelming quiet. Will it be better the following day? Week? Month?

One moment everything is familiar. The next it changes and there is no going back.
How do we go forward when the possibility of our being separated looms inside every second, at every intersection?