gently closing

I'm not a gentle person sometimes. I break a lot of shit because I get impatient. Just tonight I used my foot to (gently) press my front door shut (the frame swells in the humidity and today it was humid) and the door squashed a little. In my defense, it's a cheap door. Not hard at all.

The cowardly part of me wants to slam this week closed. Shut. Gone. Can I tell you it's been a terrible week?

Yes, there have been gem moments. Like last night when a very dear friend and a coworker joined me at a local bar to eat fried pickles and watch Murray State on the biggest TV in the place. That was a great three hours.

Other hours, other moments have not been great, and those are the ones the cowardly part of me wants to dismiss. You did not exist.

But to do that means to slam a proverbial door on the being who held my hand, or at least nustled it, through nearly every milestone in my young adult life. I can't slam the door on him.

Everyone has been so gracious and kind with their words. Friends are calling at all hours, texting and Facebooking....some remembering him with me, others sympathizing, others saying they were so glad to have met him just last weekend.

Are you okay?

Yes, I am.
I am okay because he was in my life.
I am okay because he made it okay. He made so much good.

I cry when I get home. I'm crying now. It's what he meant to me, what he represented, who he was that gets me. And then wrapped around the fact that he's gone. Zeb is gone.

I can't slam the door on this week.

I'm gently closing it, but I'm leaving it open a crack. I'll want to come back and remember. The brave part of me will always come back, will always revisit.

I'm leaving the proverbial light on, too.