It just hurts. There’s no way around it, no way of putting it off. I feel like I’m wading through a swamp with the tendrils of dead toads tailing me, holding me back. Let go, let go I tell them, I want to be free of this pain.
They don’t speak, they moan, and with their sounds they are saying spend your sadness, don’t be silent, share your grief with those you love. Heaven is history, and the words you are writing, the hugs you are giving, they are stitching a blanket to wrap around her and keep her warm as she travels far beyond all experience.
I walk through this swamp and it smells sweet, sickeningly at first, but it is growing on me. It is the smell of spring. In face of decay, we are charged with electric step, with mobility, with cause: to remember, to write, to love. That is what the books say, that is how she lived, that is what we will do.
This swamp smells sweet, I watch the flowers bloom, I can see the light. There is light through the darkness, clasp hands, march on.
We love you Nanny Joan.