Popping up everywhere, suddenly.

Luke's dad, six swordfisherman and a rescue diver, some ballerina, the great short-story writer Lucia Berlin.

Funny how you see them everywhere once somebody close to you goes. That would be Lucia, my mentor, good friend and singular being.

Sunday was the first time I experienced the momentary urge to call her, before remembering, abruptly, that she was dead.

I was driving home from Denver International Airport. Long week in Chicago, long weekend celebrating my buddy's birthday and I was exhausted. Needed a friendly voice to keep me company in the car. Ahhhhhh, Lucia. Oh. Nope.

So the ballerina showed up on This Week Sunday, which I watched yesterday afternoon, and something stately and majestic made me think about Lucia, though I never saw her act either of those ways, but I guess I always thought she had a right to. I guess. Somehow the connection zapped.

The drowing guys are all inside The Perfect Storm, which I just finished up this morning, and it was the rescue section of the downed helicopter that really had me reeling. And then this morning, I watched the second half of last week's Gilmore Girls over breakfast. After a brief moment of renewed glory at the start of this season, it has grown more unwatchable than ever, and yet I continue to watch, because I can't let go of the hope that it will amaze me again.

And it was this second half of the episode where we learned why Luke goes dark one day every year: the anniversary of his father's death, 15 years ago.

That was the last straw. The whole episode ended up revolving around it, and it was back to old form for the show, and it did rip my heart out.

Lucia's memorial service and burial is this Saturday in Boulder, and the grief seems to have reawakened inside of me in anticipation. I was a mess for about 24 hours after it happened, and numb ever since. Didn't really miss her, didn't think about her, didn't anything. Couldn't make myself feel, and didn't really want to.

I knew it would be back, probably with the memorial, though I assumed it would wait for the actual service to show up. For all I know I will be done again by then, though I kind of doubt it. People are flying in from all over the country this week, my friend Beth has lined up a a 20-hour series of flights in from Rome, and there are all these stupid little logistics to make sure people have a place to stay and a ride from the airport, and a couple of dinners to get everyone together Friday and Saturday nights.

So does this mean I'm going to be a mess all week? I don't really know how this stuff works. I sure do miss her, though.

And I remembered what I want played at my funeral. I really don't give a crap what they do with my body or any of that other stuff, I just want to make sure they play Rickie Lee Jones' "Company." ("Some Times It Snows In April" from Prince might not be bad either, but my little sister already has that one claimed.)

I first heard it when I was 17, and she, Rickie, was barely older herself, and I was amazed that she could have written something so knowing and intimate. She's looking ahead to when he dies, and the thing she misses about him most is not the intenisty of the love or the passion or any of that stuff you expect, it's something far simpler and ordinary: "I will miss your company."

It was the sweetest thing I had ever heard to that point in my life, and may still be. Sweeter than me, I seemed to have thought. I really thought I would miss the passion. And maybe with some people I will, but the first one to go that really touched my life was Lucia, and that's exactly what I miss. I miss her company.

I miss her calling me darling. The way she said it to me: like I was just a little kid, with my heart still as silly and vulnerable as a ten year old, because it never seemed to harden up and learn anything.

Here's the part that really stunned me about the song. The opening:

I'll remember you too clearly
But I'll survive another day
Conversations to share
When there's no one there
I'll imagine what you'd say

I couldn't quite picture anyone I knew literally doing that, but the way she sang it, I completely believed Rickie Lee had done it, and I pictured her in my mind a million times having that sad little conversation with herself.

It wasn't till right after Lucia died that I realized why it touched me so deeply. It was something I would do. With Lucia. I imagined it all day long.

But Sunday, when she caught me by surprise and nudged me to call her, I thought of it instantly, I pictured how easy it would be to bring her right back into the car there and have the conversation with her--complete with her confusion and annoyance about the lousy cell phone reception--but I just wouldn't let my mind proceed with it.

Which surprised me, too. I assumed I would want her there, but I guess for the moment it would just remind me of who I don't have.

Haven't quite accepted that she's gone yet, I guess. Why should I?