My emails from her are church-mouse quiet. I know better as I tell myself she’s preoccupied. It’s just another day where she is walking through her crisis-laden life. On the one hand, it’s a good thing for me as her emails are often lengthy diatribes on her continuing saga of unrequited love, conspiracy beliefs, or how her missteps throughout her 77 years propelled her into the solitude she wore like an old, weathered jacket. Our relationship is a persistent struggle, like pushing on a rope. But she has always been grateful for my consistency, an anchor in her stormy life, and she loves me amidst all the chaos and uncertainty.
I cling to the hope that her words will soon grace my inbox again. But then today, I see that cold gray granite slab, dying leaves scattered around the edges, and her name etched in the center. I’m smacked back into reality. No more emails. No more phone calls. She’s gone home.