I'll see you when the daylight ends
They are afraid the death will turn her hard. They expect her to be angry, to act out, to put herself at risk. They expect her to dive in, to fight the fight, to be reckless. They expect her to be callous, shut down.
But it does the opposite. It makes her soft, pliable. They are relieved at first, relieved that she has exceeded their expectations of coping and grief. But soon it is apparent, she has become too soft, too pliant. And it terrifies them.
Her sisters, her nieces and nephew, her friends. She seems to be soaking them in, taking in every detail, every moment, as if it were her last. She showers them with affection, though her love feels, somehow, transient. As though every action, every word, is overshadowed by an invisible for now, by an in the time we have left.
She is eerily peaceful, as though preparing for death. Waiting for it patiently with open arms. To those who pay attention, she seems to become thinner, more transparent, more susceptible to the wind. As though she may disappear at any second, blown away to some foreign place where they can no longer reach her.
It is a stark contrast to the fire she used to burn.
When she grows ill again, they are inconsolable, but unsurprised. She has been waiting for it, and so have they.
Then the hospital calls, the night they've known was coming. "You should come right away," the nurse warns. "She won't last till morning."
But the sun rises and she breathes deeply, color creeping back into her skin.
"Hey, love," they whisper, palms smoothing her hair, cool fingers across her forehead. "What happened?"
She looks at them with empty eyes. "She wasn't there."
She doesn't offer any further explanation. They are too afraid and too relieved to ask.
She seems hollow after that, a husk of a girl. And for a while, they worry.
But in time the empty bits, the vacancies, begin to fill. Slowly, she occupies her skin again, with muscles, fat, and laughter. With each day, she becomes more concrete, more present. She makes new memories, seeks new adventures, finds new things to be hopeful for.
In time, she remembers how to love someone new, and how to be loved in return.
In time, she remembers how to let go and how to live.
An evening comes, many, many years from then. She is content, and her bones are worn and tired.
As she drifts to sleep, she feels a tug she hasn't felt in ages, that insistent pull. A faint but familiar embrace draws her in and warms her. Then, softly, a lilting voice she's never forgotten.
"Cosima, my old friend. It is good to see you again."