A second ago I was sitting here, at this desk, formulating the next sentence in the French essay, when an image on the television screen took me back to the afternoon of January 30th. I lived over again the memory of sitting against their kitchen wall, near a table of pastries, and furtively glancing over to look at Mrs. Davis. My mind could not and still cannot fathom what she was feeling and how she could feel it and yet carry that somber, withdrawn face. It wasn't uncaring. It was ill with grief. How can someone invite so many people into their home to socialize when that person's son died three days prior? I don't understand it. And I guess that might be partially why I just could not look her in the face. I had to avoid her. All I wanted to do that day was weep, and the last thing I wanted in the entire world was to cry in front of her when she was trying so hard to make it through that day. It was wretched, all of it.
I still have the program from his funeral. I keep it in the red bag with all of the wedding papers, because it happened when I was doing a lot of wedding things. I wish so desperately that I could take someone who didn't know him back into my memories with me, show them what I saw, and share it so that it won't hurt me so much.
