When A.’s husband did not meet her for his appointment at the heart doctor’s office as they had planned, she waited only 5 minutes because he was always on time, if not early. When she parked in front of the house, she saw that the front door was ajar and ran from the car. And there he was, flat on his back on the floor. He must have fallen dead as he opened the door, headed for that appointment.
She sat on the floor next to him, legs straight, one hand on his chest, wailing so loud, it must have reached the heavens. An agony you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.
B., the first person who came into the house, was a student of A.’s who had become a friend. She stood at the door, took in this unfathomable, undeniable truth of life. Wordlessly, she knelt behind A., wrapped her arms around her shoulders, hoping it would offer some comfort but not disrupt the agony.
A. knew a lot of people; she taught popular yoga classes at the local community college and became friends with a lot of her students. The word spread like wildfire and all those devoted friends streamed into the house carrying food, flowers or wine. A. reached the point where she was willing to let her husband’s body go to those strong men with the gurney who had been patiently sitting out on the street.
A couple of friends sat on the couch with A., who was shocked and speechless. The rest gathered in the kitchen and the yard, talking quietly.
A.’s two daughters had immediately flown from LA to SF. When they, in their grief-stricken state, came into their childhood home and found it full of strangers, they asked the woman who had picked them up at the airport, “Who are all these people?”
The woman quietly approached all the clusters of people and asked them to leave, which they did immediately, leaving A. and her two daughters to face the emptiness.