She sat 10 rows in front of me with her 3 kids. She has two girls and a boy, just like me.
Her blond head often leans into that of her son's, her daughter's. She kisses the tops of their heads.
We were pregnant at the same time.
I saw them at Christmas parties. Our kids wore the same disheveled, almost-dressed-up style.
In the fall, they jumped together in the bounce house at fundraising picnics.
She and I simultaneously gave up on keeping their blue snow cone juice contained.
We looked at each other and shrugged, smiled.
We traveled to Moab in June as part of a large group trip.
Our kids swam together in the pool at the campground. We exchanged all-knowing mom-glances.
Between us is a mutual respect for the parallel lives we endure.
Our husbands are similar: Hard working men who build with their hands and don't talk too much.
I know she loves him as I love Andrew.
I know she is just as strong, and just as scared as I would be.
Everyone comments on it, 'She is a brave woman. She will get through it.'
I know deep down, she probably doesn't want to.
She probably wants to curl up in his leftover warmth and go to sleep.
He is at rest. I am crying for her.
It is simply more grief than I can stomach, not because I will miss him. I won't.
It is grief for her, and the empty spot in her bed.
It is for every time she looks at her son,and misses his Dad.
It is for the days she wakes up and doesn't want to do any of it, then realizes there is no one else.
I reach over and put my hand under Andrew's large thick palm. My hand is freezing. His is warm.
I lie my head on his shoulder, and he puts his eye socket against my forehead.
We fit like a seasoned baseball glove.
I feel a strange guilt, riding on the power of someone else's loss.
For me it is a rush of awakening. I see Andrew. I see my children. I see life pulsing in all it's color.
I wake up to write, and shed a few tears.
She will awaken to a vacuum and a throbbing and a load too large for any one person to carry.
As I was leaving, she said to me, " I just want it to be over. I want to throw up. This is not my life."
Then she raised her face upward and covered it with willowy hands.
I wanted to make the whole world stop for her, so she could cry until she was done.
Then her daughter came racing around the corner with a fuzzy stick-on mustache.
She wore a key-lime frilled dress, and pink ruffled ankle socks.
Her face was red from crying.
"Can I help you,?" I asked.
"I just want my Mommy," she wailed.
