9 January 2018

Today Philip died. I went to visit him and say good-bye. He was still alive when I left. I didn't want to leave when I did, but I felt like I should, and then I had an appointment anyway. I feel sad and tired, and my chest feels heavy, but every once in awhile like it is swelling up and it seems scary. I don't know why, honestly. Why grief is so strange and random. I met his friend who came to visit periodically, and was coming to visit. He was supposed to pick her up from the train station, but he wasn't there. She is taking care of his cat, Cooper, who is 23 years old and thin as a rail. Cooper didn't get to have Philip all his life after all. I touched his hand and said they were so gifted, they had so much talent. I brushed his head, and covered up part of his side that got uncovered. I touched his arm, and it felt warm and smooth. My mother's arm was very soft when I was sitting by her bedside.

When my husband's brother was dying, I cried for 3 days straight. It felt like this. He didn't know why it hit me so hard, but it did; I felt as sad as when my dad died. I didn't get to sing to Philip because people were in the room, but I did talk to him. My church bulletin listed the pieces he was supposed to play on Sunday, when he fell, and they were: How Brightly Shines the Morning Star by Buxtehude; Two Preludes from Bible Poems from J. Weinberger; Andantino by Cesar Franck. We will never get to hear them, but I listened to Buxtehude yesterday while writing that entry.