The Trickster Diaries, part 3/Chapter 17

April was cold-blooded and strange. Everything was so radically different. A place and time suddenly stripped of caring, meaning, touch and talk.
A haunted time. A silent house. A troubled ceiling of stars and planets. Long walks on endless dirt roads, at night, then endless evidence of their presence in the world we’d shared. And me, endlessly trying to push back despair.
Midsomer Murders — all 17 seasons — looping on Netflix.
And wailing. Not crying, wailing.
And not sleep.

Jones called every day. I remember checking the details of a typical call: one hour, seven minutes, 24 seconds. “Not only that, amigo,” he said, “but I would urge you to investigate those unexpected feelings and emotions. Not their meaning but their source, their origin, their seed. Meaning is connected to illusion, and right now you’re in shock.”
Me: Is that what it is?
Jones: Of course that’s what it is. Look, they were with you for a long, long time. And something you need to remember is that you gave them great lives.
Me: It worked both ways, man. That’s the thing. And I feel…
Jones: No. Stop. Don’t go anywhere near that guilt thing. They were old. Their health was deteriorating rapidly, before your eyes. Having them put to sleep wasn’t only the right thing to do, it was the loving thing.
Me: (Making space for his words to sink in) OK. Just…
Jones: Just what?
Me: Just do me a favor?
Jones: Sure, man. Absolutely. Anything. What?
Me: Outlive me.
Jones: Ha! I’ll try, amigo. No guarantees.

Liz knew what it meant when I handed her the bag of cat food and a few cans. “Oh, Rico,” she sobbed, holding me close, “there are no words.”
No. There weren’t. Except for hers.
Those were the perfect words.