Movement

I’m sorry, I don’t know what else to say. I feel like there should be some update but there isn’t one; not really. We’ve both been back at work this week. We’ve spent our evenings like we normally do – walking to the grocery store, working in the yard, falling asleep on the couch watching television. Last night we watched the Thunder beat the Lakers, and I joked around with people on Twitter and Facebook. It felt good. It felt weird.

Having things to do helps. Make dinner. Let the dog out. Yesterday my tomato transplants came in the mail from SeedSavers; Brian helped me get the tiller started and put them in the ground. I feel like if April 22 me had to give a report on the day’s activities to April 8 me, April 8 me might not know anything was up. On paper, things haven’t changed much. But it all feels so different; it feels heavier. I find myself spending a lot of time staring into space, lost.

Our 5-year anniversary is a week from today. Back in March we booked a trip to Vegas to celebrate. We have no idea if we’re going to go; we probably won’t make the decision until we’re en route to the airport, or possibly when we’re standing at the Delta counter. It might be good to get out of town for a few days, to sit by the Venetian pool drinking mojitos and getting some sun. Or, it might feel wrong and weird. Brian’s parents think we should go; we’re firmly, decidedly, not deciding, at least, not right now.

I do know that I want to do something to mark our anniversary. I’ve never loved Brian as much, never been as thankful for him, as I have been the last two weeks. I’ve never been so sure of anything as I am of us. Things feel different now, heavier, weightier, and I keep thinking how lucky I am. I love that we get to spend the rest of our lives together, and even if the rest of our lives is just the next fifteen minutes, that’s okay too.

Our ears are still ringing with pain and loss, but there are smiles, and hugs, good friends and a lot of prayers. We’re taking baby steps forward and trying not to get dragged.

Debris

Bombing

It seems oddly appropriate that this week marks the 15th anniversary of the bombing here in Oklahoma City. I remember it so well; I was sitting in second-hour Current Events, nine miles almost due south of the site. I was in the ninth grade, this stupid “honors” class where the teacher – an apathetic coach – would spend most every day reading the paper and tell us to be quiet and concentrate on whatever lame busy work he came up with.

I didn’t feel the blast. I didn’t notice the ground shaking or the walls vibrating. Nobody in our class did, at least not enough to say anything. They came over the intercom and said that if anyone had a parent who worked downtown, they should come to the office immediately. A couple people got up and nervously exited the room; it seemed an odd request. Then, once all those kids had been informed, they came over again and told us there had been an “explosion.” There was no mention of a bomb, or a terrorist; none of that was known at the time.

Ten years and about a week later, I started dating Brian. He lived around the corner from the site of the bombing, in an apartment building that had been damaged in the blast and renovated with federal money earmarked for restoring the area. That summer, he and I and a few of our friends dropped an old watermelon into the alley through which Timothy McVeigh had made his escape. It fell through space, hit the ground and exploded, as old watermelons dropped from four-story rooftops will do.

It feels like a bomb has gone off in our lives. Like our ears are ringing, our vision is cloudy and like we might have to learn how to walk all over again. Debris everywhere; on Sunday Brian and I went to Brett’s apartment to clean out some things. Now our house looks like someone has just moved in. I keep telling myself that it’s just stuff, just the flotsam and jetsam that clings to us all as we swim through life. Barnacles. Objects. Collections of atoms that, according to physicists, can be neither created nor destroyed, but only transformed.

People ask us how we’re doing. Brian says, “We’re safe, but we’re not okay,” which I think just about covers it. My answer is, “I don’t know.” I don’t know how we are. I don’t know where we are or what all of this means.

The last two nights Brian and I have fallen asleep on the sofa watching television. This is something we do a lot; this is normal. But it feels weightier now. Heavier. Life is leaden. It feels weird to do something normal. But life is continuing. We’re both back at work, the plants are coming up in the garden, the sun is rising and setting.

There’s debris, inside and out. And it’s all going to have to go somewhere. For right now, though, we’re just learning how to walk again, slowly. One small, small step at a time.

Isn’t Anybody Coming For Us Yet?

This is all so much bigger than I know how to deal with right now. Everything about it – the grief, the confusion, the sheer logistics. Truth be told, Brian’s taking care of almost all of the latter; I help where I can, which isn’t much. It leaves me feeling small and frustrated.

Tomorrow is the funeral. I’m terrified. I didn’t know I could be so simultaneously afraid and sad and grateful and humbled all at the same time. To all the people who’ve called, texted, e-mailed, sent Facebook messages and commented on this site, I seriously CAN.NOT. thank you enough. It’s meant the world; it really has.

So, think about us tomorrow. We’re sad, and getting sadder. We don’t know what comes next, or after that, on and on into forever. Still, every once in awhile, I find myself stumbling into a place where the present seems to open up, and I feel so incredibly grateful that I feel like my heart might burst with it, like an overfilled water balloon. I’m grateful for Brian, and what we have together, and for Brett, that I got to know him, and for my family, and all the people who love us so deeply and so well. Right now, though, the present feels tight and small. Everywhere I look there It is: This. I hate this. I hate everything about it, and I want it to go away, but it won’t. And I also don’t want it to go away, because if it goes away, Brett’s a little more gone with it.

And so. Pray.

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