Basic Communication

It’s been ~147 hours since my last attempt to get information from Grafton Place. I asked for a response within 3 business days.

No new messages.

Do I push? Do I wait?
Am I making it worse?
Are they ignoring me on purpose?

Have I run out of time?

The spiral overwhelms the residual giddiness I had from racing 13.1 miles around Washington DC in my traffic cone costume.

“Everyone here fell in love with Keith... He would regularly bring down his videos and pictures from around the property and share them with me.”

The first real memory I received about Keith was from the person I now hold responsible for withholding information and access to his final belongings. A gut punch. She mentioned Keith sharing “pictures” — most likely the Polaroid collection I’ve begged for over the past 7 weeks.

I cannot believe I’m in this situation. I should give up. I can’t give up. 

And when I’m deepest in the trough of the wave of grief, something unexpected happens.

I received a note.
And a photograph. 

“I’m glad to have known Keith, brief though our friendship was. He was smart as heck and so funny. The man walked a tough road. Love you Keith and I’m so sorry.”

I immediately thanked this stranger for his message, admitting that it serendipitously arrived when I needed it most.

Action calms me. 

I felt relief when I sent the notarized Small Estate Affidavit to Tamra last week. A final act. I did everything I could.

That feeling of ease lasted over the weekend when I knew there was no chance of a reply.

But as the clock on the west coast hit 9am on Monday morning, the dread, panic, and pain returned. As the hours ticked by, the intensity increased.

I began to plot my next move because doing something would replace the swirling catastrophes. I helped Fran contact the Coroner’s office for their official reports.

I never expected a humane response within three hours.

No evasiveness. No power games. No disappearing.

It is possible to get what I need. 

Answers. A timeline.
A single photo. Thirty-two words.

Proof.

Keith matters. My efforts matter.

---

The Process ... all of my writings since Keith's death.