Robert (gurdonark) wrote,


Today I returned from a not particularly gratifying day in court to find an e mail advising me that a friend and former co-worker passed away earlier this week. We had not been as close in recent years as we once had been. He was older than I am, but very young as these things are counted. I don't know many details, and the details as to passings are really little more than conversational devices. What do the whys and wherefores and hows matter? They're just part of the stories we tell one another, as time passes, and we pass.

I know the conventional wisdoms, that life is short and death awaits me, that I should love my family more and routine less, and that sometimes I need to stop and smell the roses, and all that. But right now, there's a space in my mind, a sort of nebula, and I don't know how to fill it, and I don't have a convenient emotion with which to describe it. It's one more page in the novel which writes itself daily in my head. The pages turn, moment by moment.

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