Somebody younger.

She explained to me, quite clearly and precisely. Her love of 25 years had left her. Left her standing in a cloud of dust, for a younger, more up to date model. As if picking up toothpicks from a cold, hard surface, she was having a hard time gathering her thoughts to form her words. I listened. Trying not to breath too deeply for fear it would disrupt her. Why? I struggled with her question. I have no magic answers or words. The hurt still so raw, just like a freshly burned finger, there is no relief. She asked if I knew her, the one, had I seen her, the one. The one who was younger, years younger. I had. Slowly, I responded. The word landed somewhere out in the space of a wind tunnel, spinning around, difficult to find a landing as the storm still hasn't passed. She feels less than. I can only imagine. Embarrassed. I feel her shame. Awkward. A job. She has had one. Tending the home. Carpooling the neighborhood. The usual. How can this be? I wonder with her. What causes one to think time spent is time lost? What causes the comfort of familiar shoes to be abandoned for a new pair? A pair that will cause squeaking, painful steps the longer the walk, slipping of slick new soles. I offer my friendship, my time and complete silence if needed. Her gasp is like falling out of the treehouse, landing hard, knocking the wind out of one's lungs. It will seem like the first breath will never come again, and then, just when it is desperate, she will fill her life, pick up her pieces and look up to see just how far she has fallen and landed. She called to ask me if I knew, somebody younger was walking in her shoes.