Last night I decided we were having a Passover Seder. So we did. In the beautiful town of London. We invited two friends over. The wine was abundant. The food was 100% made with love, home-cooked (one small benefit of temporary unemployment)… And as I was laughing and curled up on the couch in my bare feet pouring a 6th, 7th glass of wine for our guests, all I could think was: there is no place I can be but right here.
But yesterday I also read more and more and more emails about our friend who got in the accident. My friend who is the husband of one of my best friends from college- living in Atlanta but now healing in a hospital in Texas. Because they are so universally loved, there are no shortage of emails to the group- telling us of phone calls and gifts and hospital visits and the detailed nuances of my pregnant friend’s well-being as she sits by her husband’s bed, watching him breathe…walk…talk…encouraging him on his road ahead (he will be okay, but it will take time). And all I can think is: why am I here? Why am I not there?
This morning I had a doctor’s appointment and was running late, as is my way. In my frenzied haste from the tube to the hospital, it took me a minute to realize I was running down a street called Buckingham Palace Road. And then, I remembered all over again that I am suppose to be here.