Kitchen Debris

My housemate S moved out a few months ago. Her year in the house had been a year of grief; nearly every other month, she lost a loved one. Now she’s on a pilgrim’s journey. I miss her. The energy of the house is lighter with S gone, but the new ease doesn’t make me miss her less.

Some changes in the wake of S’s departure have surprised me. A small example: after S moved out, our kitchen floor – which had been perennially, notably dirty – suddenly no longer needed daily sweeping. My remaining housemates and I were bemused at first, until we realized that it must have been S who had been leaving behind the kitchen debris. Then we laughed. None of us had ever considered that possibility before, and it was impossible now not to feel a retrospective fondness for the stray chickpeas and vegetable scraps that once littered on the floor.

Some details of presence become clear only in absence. We don’t focus on the shape of individual puzzle pieces when looking at a completed puzzle – but if a single piece is missing, our attention is drawn to the contour of the gap. And so it has been with S. It is only with her gone that I starting to trace around the edges of her presence. I understand the outline of her grief better now, I think. I wish I had understood better before. But I feel a strange and wonderful tenderness, that we come to know each other even in absence.

Guide our attention to the characteristics of the people around us, and inspire us to greet those quirks with love. Fill our hearts with fondness at the very beingness of our acquaintances. And transform that care into a gentleness of action; let us see and support one another.