Post by Misha
Some days ago I lost one of the most important women in my life. There’s part of me that hates using that word –lost– like she might come back any day now. I don’t like euphemisms. But my throat is just not ready for the coldness of “she died”.
Her illness lasted a long time. Hundreds of days. Long enough for me to learn things I never even suspected about the specialness of our relationship. Long enough that grief came in an IV drip, leaking into my system over many months. Inoculating me, I believed, against the blinding, total absence that I knew was coming.
And then, just long enough for me to learn that one cannot be prepared to see death.
I flew back on Friday (I think it was Friday). The landing gear rumbled; you could feel it reaching toward the earth, and out the window the city of Los Angeles stretched on like a circuit board, waiting to plug me back in.
I wanted to share the sound of that moment – the exact moment of wheels touching pavement in which everything goes back to normal and nothing is the same – and I found it in this album.
Buy Hundreds Of Days, from harpist and composer Mary Lattimore, here.