Room #303

Today I entered the room where Martine took her last breath, departed this earthly realm, entered the great mystery. I imagine Martine in the arms of divine love, held by the One who creates us, received by the One who weeps. I wrote. I did not weep. I felt oddly at home in the small room with a bay window through which the setting sun cast a golden glow, outside which sea gulls called and flew, glass panes revealed cars and trucks and passersby and solitary figures walking slowly, without haste. My friend Kim and I brought in white roses and I sat by the window, reflecting, the petals soft against my nose. When we left we handed out the flowering stems, a man, a woman smiled, a mother with four children, we gave one to each of the older girls. I feel okay, at peace. I typed furiously on my laptop, anger, questions, thoughts for later. I did it. I entered your room, Martine. My eyes now finally fill with tears.