There Ought to be a Name for a Color for That

Drove home tonight at 9:30pm, daughter asleep in the back of the car. And the sky was still lit, darker than turquoise, and bluer but still more green than blue. We come up against things every day that cannot be said, or cannot be said with precision. And we rely on the fabric of our shared humanity, rely on the intuition or wisdom or insight of those around us to interpret what we say.

So cumbersome, words -- and "words" itself sounds so pedestrian, ordinary things like bent 10-penny nails -- perhaps exchangable, more likely not.

The two of us visited my father's grave site earlier today. My 4 year old (soon to be 5) wrestled with the idea that her "Poppy" was under the ground. "Can I dig down and see him?" (No, he's not really down there, only his body.) "But can I see him?" (He wouldn't be Poppy any more if you did.) "Who would he be?" (Indeed.)

I wish I could report at this point that I felt better, that I was coming to terms with his passing... But I'm not. I feel worse. I think more about my own health, my mortality. I am quicker to anger, less inspired to correct the unhealthy habits in my life. If there is a way to attack this, I do not see it. I feel quite passive in the face of it all. And the ephemeral nature of all that I do and have done in the days and years prior... is painful.

This is not right living because it is divorced from action. Something will have to yield. There ought to be a word for this waiting... waiting for something terrible or magnificent, possibly both, for something to rend the veil. Or else not, and I will diminish as my father before me has. The novels unwritten, the promise unfulfilled -- what will my little kindnesses mean against failure on that scale? Will they stack even so high as my transgressions? Or will even that be a matchstick cabin to set beside a matchstick shack? Yes or no.