What is the true measure of a person...their life, their loves, their quirks or all the stories that surround their corner of the universe? Who do we count as important, the ones that touch us so deeply they fill a crevice in our hearts? When you leave, will I reach you again? Why are we here, anyway? So many questions, so few answers. But somehow now, I don't feel compelled to know.
Words and stories, faces and lives weave their way through our existence each and every day. Do I stop? Notice? Sometimes. After all, I call myself a writer. I am interested, curious. But not always. Am I a willing participant in the lives of those I hold dear? Do I come, or do I need to be dragged? Mindful in the moment? Some of the time, I guess.
Recently, I was given a golden opportunity. A clear chance to be really present in the very dear and painful last moments of a very, very special person in my life. Words, to me, have such great power. But I realize I don't always hang on every word. This time, I was given the presence of mind to know...to listen...to witness and to cherish every last word that was said.
But eventually...there were few, if any words at all. The eyes became the true windows to it all. The heart communicated in silence...a gentle grip, a tender look, the small acceptance of love. Life's end, just like its beginning, is a thing that gives me great pause. For we are all witnesses to one another. Here, not for ourselves, but for that which happens when one steps in and carries the other...into this life, or out onto another shore.
