THE ROOM There’s a silence sometimes, that rises in the room after they leave, after the conversation. I can feel it. It spreads out like molasses poured into a jar, clinging to the wall. Sticky. Not easily forgotten. It isn’t so much the words that were spoken, but the sensibility left behind. It doesn’t happen all the time. It happens in those appointments when emotion reigns. It happens too, when we share ourselves. Their life, my life, their hurt… mine. Instinctual understanding. “I feel you now as I felt it then.” It could’ve been the death of a baby. It could’ve been a parent, a mother, a brother. But already this death has affected life – yours and mine in some way not yet describable, and it’s only been a day between. I’ve known funeral directors who’ve said the job was to “direct”: control the operations of; manage or govern. I’ve always known it to be “guide”: show or indicate the way. That’s where I sit when I’m across from them. Every one different, every one on shak
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