The house settles around me. I know it well, the pop that echoes under the floorboards, the creak of the basement door, the rustle of a bird nesting against the siding. Ice snaps quietly inside the freezer while branches rain their buds down, pattering, on the skylights. When the wind blows, my curtains sway.
I have had the unique experience, over the past few weeks, of creating order. It started in my apartment as I hurried to get back home, frightened by the distance that the news of the loss had to travel in order to reach me, alone on the Eastern seaboard. Then, for many days and nights, it was all I could do – rinse glasses and wipe counters and make room in the fridge. It was all I had to offer, besides an hour of my grieving voice, which tripped and trembled in an attempt to lead a hundred others through the vigil music. The blindness of the open casket stopped their ears. The order followed me to Houston, where I flew in order to help shoulder some of the burden Paul had to carry home from his university. It took all day for order to empty his dorm, to fill his car and to chart the route home. I slept exhausted on a towel spread over concrete that night, but my only want was for the strength to live a lifetime of these fervent, overflowing days. Today, I’m working at order again as the rain wanders in and out of our backyard. It feels good to be in the midst of preparation, to know that, if nothing else, my bed will be made when the next thing comes.
Spiritual Geography 