I speak to Jane and tell her of my grief. We don't talk, just write. This is what comes for me.
I read late into the night and completed the book Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer about Christopher Johnson McCandless, who idealistically walked into the wilderness, and through various circumstances, did not survive. What is it to know this is the end, to be lonely and scared, and know the importance of family, in his case, too late?
In contrast, the first email I read in the morning is the posting of the family of 15 year old Mitchell Louie, the posting that informs he is now unable to eat. Mitchell asks the Lord why he takes away what he loves most, the community and communion of food. I can only answer in myself that Mitchell is being filled with the Lord, pumped so full there is no room for food. It seems this young man who has had the best of medical care, and hearts leaning his way, bursting with prayer, may soon be called to go, and I suppose this time, too, the portal will be held open for me to see and peer through for a moment or two.
Marion Rosen believes we are even more powerful after death.
I have in my life felt the influence of those who have died, been reassured over and over again, helped, lifted, held, and I feel at my age, it is I who should go, not a child, and I cannot know the path of another. Perhaps Mitchell has learned all he needs to know to take the next step. I always feel sorry for we who are left behind, left to look up, not understanding, where the other has flown, grubs unable to see the flight of butterflies, and, sometimes, we do. We feel the shift in the air, the flash of color, the touch that pollinates and spreads the flowers, the scent we share.
I can barely stand. I feel weak. I look up as the sun, like a snake, winds its way through the clouds, and, there, I tuck, like a child, in a tree. I find a sunbeam reach for me, and I climb aboard, and like a child with a blanket, sit, breathe, breathed.
The pain in my heart begins to ease. I hang my prayer on the wings of a bird, not knowing where it flies or why. It leaves my sight, the vicinity of my eyes, but, inside, its flight is mine. We glide, unpinned.