Dan had mono his first year in college. I had been dating his dad for a couple months at this point and had only met him once. I took medication to him. And as I walked out of his dorm room, down the hall to the elevator, I thought to myself, "I'm completely unqualified to do this." I was in over my head. And yet by the time I got to my car, I could not deny that there was a space reserved for Dan in my heart. I could feel it, its door opened left center in my chest cavity.
The door opened again yesterday, the space had been redecorated. It belonged to his wife, Faith. She'd already moved in over a year ago, claimed our clan's name almost a year now. But I had forgotten the physical sense of this space until yesterday. Yesterday was a day for Faith. A day in the hospital, a day dreaming about grandchildren, a day praying for doctors, a day to rub Dan's back and swallow tears. It was a day to hold onto Faith.
And when I did... the door opened again in that same visceral sense that I had years ago. There was a space reserved for today. We had only to arrive with Faith.
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