It’s a cold and blustery day, here in Edmonton. My front porch is full of bedding plants and the cushions to a couch. The plants will get put in the ground on Sunday, the couch will leave Saturday am.
It’s cold and windy and we need rain so very desperately. Maybe tomorrow they say. A deployment went very slightly sideways last night, I’ve been up, off and on, since 3 am. It’s noon, I am not dressed and I’m eating the cold leftovers from last night as some sort of meal. I’m typing this while I wait for updates.
I am, in every way, in between. In between time, place and completion.
I say that Andy had to leave us. You know, as if he stood up, took his leave, bid adieu and wandered off to some nicer place. It’s a pastoral sort of answer – it does not show you the confusion, the sorrow, the rage or the stuckness.
Andy is dead. I know this. The service leaflet for his funeral is stuck to the bulletin board next to me. The DVD of his funeral is in my desk drawer. I watched that funeral on Facebook live, on my back deck, wearing shorts and a T-shirt. My brain knows that Andy is dead.
But in my heart? Even a year later, I am stuck in between.