Thirteen

Weird.

As if luck had something to do with it.

This week I read that the daughter of a couple I met one time, with whom I share many friends in common, has died. She was little, and she had cancer for many, many months, maybe many years. Her dad's facebook page has lots of pictures of her sweet bald head in various moments of the journey, and ends with a picture of the coffin he has built for her with his father and brother. It is gutting.

Yesterday I saw a friend I don't see often anymore. It is the ten-year anniversary of her brother's murder. It took but a moment to remember with her, and the gutting truth of his story was tear-making all over again, the pain of it as acute and wrenching 3650 days later.

She is walking alongside a friend who's daughter drowned last summer in circumstances that will never be clear enough leaving only questions that can never be answered. This woman was anchored by motherhood, and in its absence, now just drifts on her own sea of what the fuck.

When one week brings this many brushes with unbearable, all there is to do is bear it with. Even if it's just a psychic with.  I will carry some of the unbearable for a time believing that somehow the cosmos works together for good and the piece I carry with them is a piece they don't have to bear alone.

All there is is with. With weighs more than luck I think. At least today.