6:40

It's not raining yet, today, but the Ethiopian women are bundled for the wet and the cold. They scurry by our house dressed in white scarves and wool coats. There isn't a single place to park on the block, but the churchgoers try again and again to squeeze their SUV's into tiny spots next to fire hydrants and driveways. They park too far away from the curb, their cars angled out into the middle of the street. The neighbors across the street call the police. Every Sunday, they wake up, place orange cones in front of their house and driveway and then, call the police.

This happens every Sunday. We don't go anywhere on Sundays unless we are away until after noon when all of the churchgoers have unwedged their cars and gone home.

But this is not every Sunday. Today I feel like donning a white scarf and chanting in the orange Coptic Christian church where all the Ethiopians are headed. Today I feel like saying the name of god over and over again in a foreign tongue until my throat grows raw, until my knees bleed rocking back and forth on the cement floor.

I woke at 6:40 this morning. I looked at the clock and thought, "Is Jim (Fossil Guy) still alive?" Then I took the dog out and watched the Ethiopians drive down the street looking for their parking places. I crawled back into bed, summoning the dog up with us. He rested on a pillow in between us, his head draped over my hip.

"Is Jim still alive?" I thought it again and kissed Ann on the forehead.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Just thinking about Jim."

I came downstairs and got the paper, made coffee, and listened to the radio. A slow morning. Ann read the paper and I searched for new music on iTunes.

Then an email from mom and dad. Jim died this morning. 6:40.

Death is a squeeze to the heart. Not a gentle squeeze but a firm one. It hurts. It reminds you you are still alive. I want to do something to relieve the squeeze, but there is nothing to do.

I shall take the dog for a walk. I shall grade papers for the upcoming week. I shall clean the house, fold the laundry, and call my parents.

But those aren't things one can do to loosen the heart. It's tight and it will stay that way for days, weeks, and Sundays to come.

Goodbye, Fossil Guy. Know that you are loved.

Still.

And that the women in white chant their prayers not knowing they are chanting for you.

I know.

I will miss you.