I am ready
when Michael comes for me at 2 am, tapping lightly on the window and I slip out the back. Ease the screen door shut on my way out, release slowly until it clicks.
Barefoot in wet grass glimmering, we twinkletoe across the lawn. Michael of course holds Lucy's journal and I am carrying a blanket, some wine, pain. We are silent all the way down to the meadow, and wordless sit near the tree that she never managed to climb. He starts to read:
My god, it's full of stars,
This heaven surrounding my silence
Tis full of fire, icy brilliant,
This satin sky filling my soul.
His voice is clear, rises and falls in the empty night.
If this stillness will kill me,
Who then would know?
I'd rather a hellfire and brimstone
Then iciness, death by cold
Then I am crying, he is ready, has known to expect it, falls silent with his own grief. We open the wine, drink a toast to the friend we're discovering even after loss. There is no attempt to talk other than to pick up the book, read random lines aloud.
We lie back, look up.My god, it's full of stars.