The restaurant was crammed into the ground floor of an old stone building set in a narrow ramshackle plaza. It had three small, hazy windows and a stout door braced open by a barrel. I approached with Lauren and Fi behind me, and peered through the door. It was poorly lit, but I heard the faint murmur of voices and the clink of cutlery. I entered.I found a cramped room with a low plaster ceiling. The patrons turned. I met their gaze, stepping in, weaving among the tables and chairs. Their murmur turned to a hush. Lauren and Fi joined me. We looked for a seat. There were three smallish tables, which were occupied, and a larger one, which was not. We headed toward it.A man came from the kitchen smiling. He looked at us and frowned."Hi," I said, "We're here to meet a friend." Ah, yes. You're here for Paolo. He's late, as usual. Go ahead and sit."He motioned to the larger table. We sat.I studied the other patrons. Two monks sat face to face, hunched forward, mumbling. An empty bottle. It seemed that the air itself was filled with the buzz of words, but with her death the words were merely sounds to fill the space. The words themselves were dead, and fluttered to the wooden floor like clumsy flies. The owner of our words was wrapped in her shroud and lay in that simple dark box. And so, a chapel filled with a million spoke meaningless gibberish when we attempted to mourn and speak our greatest grief at losing our gift, our Muse. It seems ironic to me that the one moment when all wanted to cherish and remember the cause of letters loved, and stories told, when it was absolutely obligatory to paint our grief in the words she gave us, those words ran dry. I wept. No, I keened because the words I needed were gone. When I needed them the most, the fled and I babbled mercilessly with the throngs. Tears were on the undistinguishable faces, pouring out the words that should have been, the words that could not be. And we could only hope, could only pray that it was enough.
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