Haunted by What is Absent

I think it's interesting how one thought leads to another, one comment unearths an entire life that's been buried under so many years. One minute I'm in the present and then something reminds me of my grandmother ironing my clothes and then there is her house in my mind and the smell of coffee in my nose, which was always the scent that permeated her home. Then there she is at her sewing machine, there are her spools of thread. There she is in the kitchen; she was a wonderful cook. There's us at the dinner table. There's an entire life now vanished except for these fragments of memory that are left. And how do you create another life when that old life is gone? This life is never fully whole for me. It's made of those fragments, those shards, so it's unstable, haunted by what is absent, by all that is missing. But it's all I have. It's all any of us have. And some days, I'll take that life and do what I can with it. I'll make it enough.