Rewind four months.
School – my safe place. Math – a challenge.
I float about the room.
“You got it!”
“Tell me about how. . .”
“Let’s try this one again.”
A persistent buzz on my wrist — one I’d usually ignore. Who keeps calling me?
A glance. A skipped heartbeat. Quick steps to my classroom phone.
“Your dad called,” he said. Heart wrenching news. No tears.
“I have to go.” Click.
An automatic dial. A dash to the hallway. An excruciating wait. A quick plan.
“Is this right Miss Quimby?” he said hopefully.
“Looks like you’re on the right track,” I replied unknowingly. “Keep going.”
Dry eyes. Survival mode. Pack your things. Say goodbye. Get out.
My hands gripped the steering wheel, and I crumbled.
Heartbreak with a phone call. I am so sorry.
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I’m so sorry for your loss. There are no words. Your words capture this time that will always be a part of you.
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In an ordinary day, one phone call can change one’s whole world. I am sorry.
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so hard, I’m so sad for you… I will always remember, too. XO
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And there is no turning back time. Only memories. I am sorry for your loss.
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Those phone calls are so difficult. I am sorry for your loss.
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I am so very sorry. I know this is so hard.
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Keep writing – it helps you heal – it helps you make sense of your loss – Michael Matters. I tear up and release my own set of black balloons. Keep writing.
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Oh my heart. I feel it in each word. I’m so sorry.
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