Today tastes like rosemary, lemons, violets. Resinous, sour, bitter, cloying.
I just received word that a friend's husband had died in a farming accident.
A mutual companion spread the tidings to let everyone who knew them know the bad news. Being shepherds, I can imagine that it wasn't uncommon for Jimmie and Quill not to see each other for hours on end, on a large piece of property where you could lose track of time and each other.
Quill dropped a line to the list about calling for Jimmie in the December night, under the canopy of stars. Of going out and searching, and finding Jimmie; of performing CPR without a shred of hope that something could be resucitated (but that is what you do; you do what you can right then and there while those who need to be called are called, and come to the scene with noise and light to tell you that it's over). Of wrestling with an angel for a cold dark half hour, of an angel who had to tell the stars to move over and give her room to take Jimmie away.
I only knew them through their writing, and what others had to say. But it was enough.
The heart knows what the heart knows, and sometimes all it knows is to weep.