Laura Harrier

What's the timing?

To her, the man standing next to her at the center of the store, hands in the pockets of his summer day blue sky pants, would blossom despite his grief, or more accurately, because he was just now becoming himself because of his grief.

She loved and hated the fact that her own husband had never really been scratched by any real way by his own life.

Happy, well-adjusted birth family, solid education,

early in life financial windfall, never a fight with their daughter.

When he took a grinding in the sand while surfing, he would come out and watch the blood running down the hairs on his legs, a big smile on his face as if it was happening to someone else entirely.

But this man, here in her store, scuffing his shoe gently across the wooden plank floor, this man knew genuine agony.

The kind of loss that puts you dog face on your knees in a random motel room, crying from the very center of your gut and not stopping until you pass out and sleep there with the bed skirt brushing back and forth over your forehead like a prayer flag.

He would carry that pain like it was a delicate little gift, nuclear in its power.

And everyone he met, even the ones very close to him, even his lovers, would not be able to name the experience.

Yes, absolutely.

The timing is fine.

And we'll take care of the delivery.

That's part of it.

So we can set the arrangement in the right way.