The Bustle in a House
The Morning after Death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth --

The Sweeping up the Heart
And putting Love Away
We shall not want to use again
Until Eternity.
          -- Emily Dickinson

Even though it's not my house where a death has occurred, an air of gloom pervaded my spirit and spilled over into my living space today. The vista this morning was deeply gray and silver and I knew it would not be a sunny day. 

The writing prompt for this morning was after a line by Czeslaw Milosz, "A year after your death..." A year since Brandi, I wrote. This time next year we'll remember it's a year since Mr. Rosenthal. If life is a journey, time a march, you stop every once in a while and look over your shoulder at those who are no longer moving forward, who stand forever in the same place.

In a lot of ways I am still in denial, still standing at the door of Lynn's room in disbelief, saying no, this can't be, he's going to call me tonight, Monday maybe, because we have things to talk about. With nothing to do today but wait for notification of funeral arrangements, I went about the solemn industry of sweeping up and putting away all the traces of Christmas still lingering. It kept me focused

Undecking the halls is an unappealing task under the best of circumstances. There's something sad and tired about Christmas displays that stay up too long, and if things looked stale to me two days ago at the Lehigh Valley Mall, how much more unattractive are they today.

So I put ornaments back in their boxes, and dismantled both the traditional crèche and the figures I use to portray the shepherds' arrival scene from Amahl and the Night Visitors. I stripped the three tables still covered with Christmas linens down to their natural state and put away the gold-sprayed macaroni wreath Lynn made when she was four. Ron still has to put away his train layout and take apart and store the tree, so the living room has an unsettled look, and a visitor unaware of the date might not be able to tell if Christmas is coming or going.

Late in the afternoon I received word that Mr. Rosenthal's funeral will take place tomorrow at one of the district's elementary schools. I reached our pastor in Lancaster and agreed to come down early tomorrow morning to bring Lynn and two other girls back. (She'll bring the others.)

This evening I picked up my Gaudete file, the notebook I keep for the notes and lists related to the season, particularly the party. When I opened it to file a letter I received today I saw that the last bit of information I'd entered was this: "2003 -- invite J. Rosenthal."