***This is a work of fiction. I'm not sure I've conveyed the image I want to yet, this is also just a first draft.

     Steam billows out of kettle neck. She shakes her head and flits to the stove top to flick the burner off, and proceeds to pour boiling water into the mugs waiting with tea bags. Pulling the paper tag of one between her middle and ring fingers, she bobs the bag up and down (a habit she picked up young; she knew there was really no reason for the constant motion). Slowly the tea bleeds its brown tint into the water, darker and darker until a beautiful earthy brown fills the cup. The birds twitter their unwritten songs outside the window at the feeder. The second cup’s bag untouched accomplished the same brew as her bobbing method, so she proceeds to throw away both bags. A little sugar is all that she stirs into one cup, leaving other plain.

      Moving with the cups to the small kitchen table where he sits, she cannot help but feel inadequate. The body at that table, that constantly shrinking body, that once vital body, was her grandfather. That man, that dying, but once thriving man, was her grandfather who did not ask for much, but the things he asked for were small compared to what he wanted. The cup of tea in her hand is what he requested and something he does enjoy, but what he needs is to inhale and not wheeze with pain. What he needs is relief that you do not get from drinking warm beverages. She sinks down into a chair across the table from him with the mugs and slides his across the pale wood table top to him. He lifts it and drinks, letting the tea flow past his rough lips.

     Here the moment stops. No expression of joy on his face. The only way to note the passing of time is by the constant pulse of his oxygen compressor, but its consistency makes it seem as if silence does not exist, only the sound of inhale and exhale do. She would like to reach across the table and force his facial muscles into an upward turn, to make his wrinkly skin around his eyes bunch up like a laugh was passing through his mind. Her siblings and mother always speak fondly of their moments with grandpa: the hot cocoa drinks, the eating of “banned” chocolates (too much sugar for a dying man), the drawing of pictures on paper napkins, and the wise words (quotes of wisdom) that they could repeat verbatim as if he had said them to them every day. Here she sits in the breathing. No joy on her face. The moment has stopped.

     Looking down into her untouched cup of tea, she is lost. What is there to say? It seems as if there is nothing to break this pause. No words, nothing left to say. No touch left to give that would feel the same as it use to. And feelings, she cannot be sure if there are feelings left, and if there are, should she feel them?

     Then the silence begins. Real silence. No inhale, no exhale. No pulse of concentrated oxygen. Looking up there is no man across the table from her, no half empty mug of tea. The birds sing, their voices free now that the moment has unstopped. This is real silence. Sound without breath, life without air. Raising her mug to her lips, she drinks. The tea fills her mouth, still plain and unsweetened.

On last Thursday, September 18, my high school friend died from lupus.

Every day, life feels more and more surreal. I knew he would die eventually, I knew that his condition was declining, and I knew that he wouldn't live to see much of his adult life. But still it shocked me. At 17 years old, no amount of forewarning can make your death understandable. Just a year younger than me, never to become any older.

Wednesday is the funeral. Waiting for it is painful, yet part of me doesn't want to go and make it real. But I've had that experience before, and I never really been understand the deaths that I didn't go to funerals for.

So yeah, more things to throw at my therapist....

So… I’m seeing a therapist, which is only kind of interesting if you know much about me or the past two years of my life. It’s been, to say the least, interesting. At any rate, Monday was my first day. After waking up feeling ridiculously shitty, I made an appointment. Right away I didn’t want to go, but by the afternoon I convinced myself I didn’t need to go. I was feeling better by the time my appointment was up. I told myself that I should go because it would be awkward to call and cancel and if I didn’t call they would call to check on me, but really I just knew I needed to go.

An hour of crying and talking later, all I wanted to do was sleep. It was a release and a confusion at the same time. I’ve never gone to therapy before. Thinking about it tonight, I feel kind of foolish and simple that I had to go to therapy and talking about such unimportant things (in hind sight). At the same time it was a relief to get some of the big stuff out of my head and into someone else’s mind.

But I keep thinking about next Monday’s appointment, and I feel uncertain.

Okay, so I have a few spare moments before I go eat lunch, so I thought I'd stop by and let you all in on my inner deep, dark nerdiness. I love philosophy club.

Now joining something like philosophy club is a bit daunting when you actually have very little knowledge of philosophy, but it turned out to be very educational and not at all difficult to participate in. We talked about humanism last night, which was an topic of interest to me because I didn't know very much about it (still not entirely knowledgeable). The great thing about this group is the variety of people. Going to small Christian liberal arts college puts a slight damper on diversity, but this group is quiet the range of people. We have a range of Christian upbringings, like Catholic mixed with Methodist, to Unitarians.

I'm the only freshman in the group, but there are several other new members. I found the group easy to talk with, as they all seem to be fairly open minded and respectful. They were also knowledgeable and I learned a lot last night.

So there you go, the inner nerd shows its self again, but I don't really care. I can't wait for next week's meeting.