I sit with remains of the dead on Tuesday morning, them under snow, earth, me under hat, coat.
February whispers between granite markers of faces gone. And along headstones of Webers and Husseys and Gibsons, winter carves transitory monuments, flakes of the heavens. By cemetery’s edge, a line of bared maples stand with greyed limbs raised in salute of lives lived, some well.
Kneeling, I run a finger along stone trench of a name, a date. These stones are only the oyster shells scattered behind; the pearls, precious to Him, have long since been gathered.
I close my eyes, see. Days shape around irritants, time forming jewels, lives of spherical iridescence. I’m stilled at a headstone, the broken oyster left behind.
Nothing moves but the wind and the wings of a crow flying south and my lungs rising and falling, filling with now.
Lord, I have today, now. What do I make of it?
Part of a series this week on death and dying… Looking death square hasn’t been easy, light. I’ve struggled, wanting to move on. My thanks for lingering where we’d like to deny. Final piece tomorrow, Lord willing.
