Susan LaffertyEarly morning dark.
Dawn, only a whisper
in the air.
We walk. Step by step.
Following a road
to the place of tombs
and death.
Slow in sorrow.
Wrapped in the fog
of grief.
Not looking for the living
among the dead.
Loss.
The memory comes back. Distinct. Clear. From 1972. One hot, humid afternoon in Kediri, Indonesia.
I’m just arriving at our home. After being away for high school a couple of months. In Jakarta.
Standing outside. Reaching for the handle of the screen door. And suddenly a subconscious map surfaces. One I never knew was there.
A map of presence. Home and those who belong in it.
Without warning, the realization of deep loss hits. Full force. There’s an empty space on that map.
The place where my sister Ann has always been.
Grief. Tangible.
Limits. We fight restrictions.
Don’t tie us down. Hem us in. Hold us back.
The old lie seeps in from birth. All the way from the Garden. “Did God actually say, ‘Don’t eat this’?” (Genesis 3:1-7)
And asserting independence, we step subtly off the path. Veer inconspicuously outside the way of truth. Go our own way.
We’re entitled to this freedom. This pleasure.
So we think.
