One of the problems with being my age is that people stepping out of the frame of that big picture of who I think I am becomes such a common occurrence that I don’t always give each one the credit, the space that they deserve.
Then comes that day when I realize that everybody … everybody … from that generation before mine … has quietly and with little ceremony left the photograph, or the stage, or whatever metaphor seems most apt to you.
This morning it was when I was listening to an Emmylou Harris song that those individual departures came all together and the effect, as always, is nearly overwhelming. Feelings sneaked up on me when my defenses were down and became an hour where I missed all those people together and individually. An hour of the most exquisite heartache where I just let go and let it happen.
I’ve obviously recovered my senses now, because I can talk about it. Episodes like this are uncommon for me, my nature is to avoid them if I see one coming. Even though I always feel cleansed when they have passed, and the grieving is the real-est thing there is, I don’t like feeling so much out of control.
(If you could see my face right now, you would see me smiling at what I’ve typed. As if I ever once, even for a moment in this sweet short life, really had control. Hubris.)
I’ll let Emmylou take it from here.