One word.

Time passed, the second year was not easier than the first. I’m navigating the fifth year now. There’s still the odd bump, particularly this this celebratory time of year.

You don’t see the bumps coming, they’re unsigned, no warning. Back during the second year I visited Mottsu’s parents after a completing a work assignment in New Zealand. I traveled home through Sydney stopping there for a further couple of days work.

I met a colleague in a cafe near the office. We were fuzzy and friendly over coffee and toast. She asked about New Zealand, the trip, the work and I told her about the visit.

“Oh” she exclaimed and then asked “How were they?”

It wasn’t a straightforward question answer. How were they? I wondered how they were, my mind stepped back to their lounge room, our conversation. The tears we’d shared. My response formed, and I kept my reply simple.

“Sad.” I answered, “They were very sad.”

Sad, one word that summed up how they were.

“Still…?” she said, hardly looking up from the task of buttering her toast.

One word, a body blow. My colleague was punching above her weight with that reply. I was at once confused and dumbstruck. Was there a time when I wouldn’t be sad, a time after which his parents would no longer be sad? Still, uttered with nonchalance was a set-up, and I walked right in. I felt wounded and stupid, unhealed and accused of I wasn’t sure what. I was instantly unsure of myself, wounded afresh and brimming with uncertainty.

Nodding in acknowledgement “Still” I mumbled, only able to utter one word and then fixing my focus on buttering my own toast. We were still fuzzy, still friendly, only quieter.