I don't know whether anyone else feels this way. Like any time a friend dies there's another piece of their scaffolding taken down?
Maybe I'm weird that way? But I imagine that if I started out as a building, mine would be a higgledy-piggledy one, bright colours, odd windows with a bit of a tower (for reading) and a grand piano in the foyer with a solitary lamp. I saw a hall like that once when I'd run Forest Hill at night in Toronto near where I lived. I loved that house with its stark meaningful space in an otherwise busy home.
I have lots of doors, French doors, a half-door like an Irish cottage, a garden door with a shelf. a storm door like the real one I have out front, especially built for me by a craftsman recently. For battening down the hatches.
My building is always under construction but never finished. Held together by beautiful scaffolding. Mixed colours, blue, red, purple, bright silly green, laughing yellow.
And when there's a death of a loved one, a chunk of scaffolding detaches and there's a slight upheaval in the building, maybe a tilt to the right or the left or a subsidence. A couple of bricks falling down or a window popping out.
My scaffolding just had a major chunk taken out of it. No, not my Irish friend. This one took me from left field and I'm still processing.
I will write about him when my breath comes back and I can do him justice. He would never have thought he was a hero. But he was to me.
My building's at a weird angle.
I need to take time to shore up the foundations.
