Lovely Rita

It's not very often that words fail me. Even at those moments when things feel most precarious, I tend to say a few just to test the waters. On Monday I ran out. It was a morning of phone calls. My wife's aunt was in the hospital. She had collapsed on her way to an exercise class. At this point, I still had words. Most of them were in response to my wife's fears. What was happening? What happens next? What do the doctors say?
I had so many questions because I had just seen her the day before. She had walked over and hung around the pool with us as we soaked up the late summer fun. We hugged goodbye when it was time to leave, and my son who is a most excellent son, went back for extra hugs and kisses when he was reminded. There was absolutely nothing in our visit that could have prepared us for the phone calls the next day. Which is why when the phone call finally came to tell us that she had slipped away, there were no more words.


As sure as she had been there the day before, she was gone. Caught on the wrong side of that awful swinging door. I spent the rest of the day checking in on people: mostly my wife and son. I attempted to make sense of the situation, but it wasn't any good because I was wrestling with an unfamiliar vocabulary. We made toasts and held on to memories, but the sudden void was too much. We tried to make ourselves feel better by presuming that she felt nothing. No pain. Then we went back to feeling our own.
Rita was a light in the world. A smile in a sea of furrowed brows. She lived a life of adventure with both feet on the ground. She challenged herself by trying new things. She could be counted on for a birthday card and a salad at the potluck. I don't believe that I ever fully appreciated her while she was here, and that lack of words will haunt me for some time, but I can say now that Rita stomped on the Terra, and she will be missed. Aloha.