Missing Carl

Sometimes, not always, there are these sharp moments where it seems the world is spinning so beautifully around me. It’s too much, and I want to inhale deeply to take it all in, but the constriction in my chest reminds me he is missing. Then I force another breath and am filled with — nothing. Because it is just air.

It’s all so unoriginal, so uninteresting. I’ve taken to rereading A Grief Observed as if the fifth or sixth time would reveal new insights.

“There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting. Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me.”

– C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

What they say about Time — I’m not sure if this is easing or just suspension. There is much joy. The moments of grief are fewer and farther between, but they are sharper, more acute. The sharp realisation of a message unsent, laughter cut short, retraining myself to say “I” where I am accustomed to saying “we” for so many little things.

It’s a beautiful tangled mess the way a good friend integrates himself into your life, but when he’s abruptly removed, it’s as if someone went through and hacked out all the knots. I know it’ll eventually grow back, but right now it feels like an amputation.