A piece of glass

I've been sitting at my kitchen table for ten minutes now, staring at a piece of glass.  Picking it up, rolling it across my hand, running my finger along the edge. The stripes and dots are so obviously from the rear windshield of a car.  It's almost pretty in its wavy, bluish form.  So dull - the safety glass doesn't cut me today, although it cut the hell out of me back then.

Tomorrow I arrive early to get microphoned up before we take the ambulance over to the staging area before the mock crash, where I will play Incident Command and take a critically injured patient to the helicopter.  Tonight, I'm trying to finish up my written presentation and my Power Point of ugly pictures for the presentation I will give about my personal experience on Friday morning during the mock funeral. 

My Mom will be there.  It will make it harder, I think, to speak real words knowing she'll hear.  But it makes me feel better that someone who knows first-hand what I went through will be there for me.  Again.  As in countless days before.

My professional demeanor will be gone, I fear.  If how hard it has been to read through and look through this big bag of photos, this big file of paperwork and memories is any indicator, this will be much harder than I anticipated.  It amazes me, how infrequently I think of that day in any real depth, yet how near and startlingly real it feels as I work through this.  I can smell it.  I can hear it.  I can taste it.

I am feeling it.

Suddenly I want a Marlboro menthol, Tori Amos in the CD player, and the second Austin Powers movie in.

I graduate from college tomorrow.  Sparing one paper due next week, my work is done. 

Derek always wanted to see me finish.  He encouraged me.  We talked often about my plans to go back.

I haven't worn my half of the Mizpah coin I buried with him in years.  I found it yesterday.  It helps me know he's here, and he'll be with me these next few days.

Please send me your love and light as well.