How many bags were there? There must have been close to a hundred, lit up around the court with little Christmas lights, glow sticks. How many names were there? A hundred, a thousand, ten thousand, some unwritten but all still remembered. How many people were there? Too many to actually keep moving around the track, stopped in clusters, looking out over the darkened gym. How many memories? Tears? Compromises? Bargains? Sacrifices? How many shoulders shook, how many arms reached, how many eyes squeezed shut?
How hard was it? To recall the Saturdays spent at her bedside? Do you remember? Watching all the energy leave the stark bedroom, floating out the door in a yellow rush, giving up on us? As we sat there, week after week, almost rotten with testifying to her deterioration.
And yet, it was better to be there. Better to bring it out in front of strangers then let the regret and guilt and anger fester in the back of my brain. Better than constantly asking unanswerable questions to an unresponsive deity.
And it was refreshing and I felt a tiny bit better about everything. I felt together.
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