Saturday, we had a going-away get-together of sorts for my friend J., who leaves March 19 for New Zealand. Ten women sitting around a restaurant table, plied with delicious chips, salsa and margaritas. Eventually, we had dinner, made extra delicious with more pitchers of margaritas. Also, eventually, tears were shed.
Not by me, though. Is it because I'm cold-hearted? No. [I am often cold-hearted, but that's not the point here.] Is it because I don't really care? No. I care a whole hell of a lot. Is it because I'm not one for public displays of tears? No. I can cry in public as well as I can in private.
It's because I was only thinking about Monday. Today. I don't have room in my head for anything except getting to today and Pete's bypass. After today, I will only be able to think about getting him well enough to come home from the hospital. And when he's home from the hospital, I will only be able to think about getting him well enough to get the hell out of the house and back to work.
I think that I'll be able to ponder again how horrible J.'s leaving is by about March 17 or 18. And for many days after she is gone. It's true that, in-flight, contents may shift in the overhead compartment.