and when you wake in the morning's hush, I am the sweet uplifted rush of quiet birds in circled flight
Well, my grandfather is gone. I was there, and I sang and stroked him and loved him, along with my mom and my grandmother, until his last breath and beyond. He died in my grandmother's arms: kissed, and hugged, and told that God loved him. He breathed less and less frequently until he finished altogether.
And now my sister is sleeping next to me in the filtered yellow light of mid-morning, resting for the day ahead. In my universe, all is quiet, soft and calm, poised to continue gently forward. I'm being held up by something not of my own self, and it is so incredibly comforting.
At least five reasons quickly come to mind that would have prevented me from being with my grandfather when he died. But he waited. And I got there. And fifteen minutes later, after he had heard my voice and had his tears wiped away, dehydrated as he was, after all of that, he made his peaceful, loving exit. "He was in the light," my grandmother says. I saw what she meant.
There are even more reasons why I might not be able to be truly present right now. I could be terribly ill from this cold, obsessed with the work that lies still ahead, too involved in my mother's mental illness, to welcome this calm I feel now. To take refuge in this strength that comes from somewhere beyond me. To listen, and breathe, and do things that feed me, like writing, and having music.
And in my hour of darkness
there is still a light that shines on me.
Shine until tomorrow,
let it be.