The Space Where He Was

It’s quiet now, the space where he was.

His hands aren’t where they should be. We can’t hold them anymore.

We reach for him in this familiar place where he belonged, but come up empty. It feels foreign now, because he isn’t there.

He had gentle, sturdy hands. Hands that would drop everything to help, to comfort, to pray, to worship, to hold, to hug, to fix.

Trying to hold on to this place, it’s like trying to hold a fistful of oil.

We rejoice and grieve as those with great hope.

But we do grieve.

As one does.
As we must.

Tiny, insignificant moments bubble up to soothe and strike with uncanny precision, and somehow we never see them coming.

Soothe or strike.

Rejoice and mourn, laugh or weep.

Whisper, roar. Flutter, flail.

It’s all both/and.

Ever present, the space where he was remains. It’s unmistakeable.

And it is still, and very, very quiet.

So quiet, a day can almost feel like just a day.

So quiet, a song can just be a song; a book is only a book.

So quiet, we can almost forget the enormity of it all.

Until.

We brush up against the curves and corners of all the space where he was, and suddenly, sweepingly, startlingly, everything isn’t just anything anymore. It’s all a very great something, pouring out from the space where he was.

Flooding all the places around and in and through us.

Razor sharp and whisper soft. How can it be that a non-thing, this space where he was, can slice and heal simultaneously?

Even as it cuts, we try to hold tight to the shape of him. But we are destined to fail. You can’t fasten the edges of a thing that is fluid.

Nowhere and everywhere.

Both/and.

The silence is deafening tonight.

His hands aren’t where they should be. We can’t hold them anymore.

The space where he was, it’s quiet now.

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For my dad, James L. Barnett, 1955-2021. .