my cryptic comment last night about the advice i gave that i can’t follow was in relation to what lara just posted. i didn’t want to focus a harsher light on the subject than was needed.
i sat outside on the patio last night, listening to my friend cry while i stared blankly at the fence, the white plastic chair, the sapling, my bare foot, the bottle of beer in my hand, anything. i guess i was looking for some continuity, some hint of “this means this” that i could pass along to her. none came. it was all just fence, chair, tree, foot, beer, window, fence again.
she is a miracle baby, i tell lara. she has always surprised us all, keeping us guessing, delighting us. i am echoing the words of lara’s mother, her sister, her close friend, her husband. i am saying over again words that bring no comfort, or that bring such little comfort in comparison to so much worry; i am dragging a sheet of plastic over a mile-deep chasm.