Interim.

I am sitting in an Arizona airport, before I board another plane that will take me to a Utah airport. I am a little afraid to get off of that plane. A little afraid to walk into my granny's house. A little afraid to not find her there. A lot afraid to feel her absence. (I think that that may be the moment when it all feels real.)

I am thankful for Edna St. Vincent Millay, a poetess who understood such moments and feelings perfectly.

You are not here. I know that you are gone,

And will not ever enter here again.

And yet it seems to me, if I should speak,

Your silent step must wake across the hall... 

There is your book, just as you laid it down,

Face to the table,--I cannot believe

That you are gone!--Just then it seemed to me

You must be here. I almost laughed to think

How like reality the dream had been;

Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still.

That book, outspread, just as you had laid it down!

Perhaps you thought, "I wonder what comes next,

And whether this or this will be the end";

So rose, and left it, thinking to return.