Remembering

I snuggle in a knitted afghan, and I comfort myself in my imagination.  The afghan was a gift from someone I barely knew who wanted to soften my grief when a dear friend died.

In an Internet discussion group, I had asked a newbie question.  You wrote and gave me an answer.  I answered.  You answered, and the dream began.

In your own way, you sent your support in emotionless notes.  I saw in your words an attempt to tell me that I was not alone, and life was still worth living even when you lose someone --while the words spoke of computers.

I wanted to die.  It was I who should have died instead of her.  I began a long climb from the depths of despair and you were there to listen.  A lifetime of hurt and anguish poured from my heart.

"Arms length," you said, and I said, "Okay."  I had no idea what I'd agreed to.  To me real and the Net were the same thing.

My personal life was falling apart.  Yet I could not speak of it lest I would feel disloyal to my family.  Somehow you knew.  You didn't pry.  You let me open up in my own time and in my own space.