On the day of your funeral, the sun shone as brightly as I could ever remember.
I turned my face towards it and let the warmth caress my skin and the light to penetrate my soul.
That sunshine, I told myself, was you, - alive again in the wind and the earth and the delicate snowdrop’s promise of spring.
Alive, even as I watched men in black uniforms lift the mahogany coffin, laden with its canopy of flowers, carefully from the sleek black hearse. Alive in the silver tears that flashed in the sunlight, streaming from the eyes of those who loved you still.
Love not condemned as we poor mortals to one day wither and die.
I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it through your service - I feared my heart might shatter and I would be left silently screaming to the heavens, begging them to let me follow you.
But I was strong for you. I knew you were watching. I know you’re always watching, wherever you are.
Up until that very last day, I’d been prepared. We had both accepted death as a reality - we should be thankful for that, really. There had been warning, we had braced ourselves, had made our promises to one another.
Ultimately though, it didn’t make it any easier. Nothing could have prepared me to suddenly face the world without you.
I went to your funeral in my very best dress; I wore the silk scarf you loved to touch and the gold bracelet you gave me for my eleventh birthday. I had it all laid out days before because I wanted to be ready.
~~
We went to Michael’s house, remember?
I still think of it as ‘Michael’s house’, even though Emilie's family take up most of the room now. That house hasn’t changed since Meg died… it makes Michael happy to know his grandchildren will always remember her. I always tell Johns’ kids that Debbie was the most beautiful woman who ever lived.
I wonder if you’ve found her up there yet.
There’s an angel called Michael, I think - the patron saint of the sick. Is that really a coincidence? We went to Michael’s house because we were sick at heart, because he could comfort us.
He understands what it means to be left behind. He knows you can hope and pray until the cows come home, but if it is to be, it will be.
He says all you can do is have the grace to accept, to remain behind and clean the house, to be grateful for what you had…and to wait patiently for your turn.
I remember you cried when Michael talked about Eddie and William. You took me in your arms and kissed my neck and told me not to worry.
That was the day I found you the four-leafed clover in the field.
With gentle fingers, I plucked it from its hiding place before it disappeared.
You told me it was too late for luck. I touched the clover to your beautiful face and collected your tears.
I told you it was never too late for hope.
~~
I wish it hadn’t been like this…but it had to happen sometime, some way.
I went into the hospital that evening and found you on the edge of the bed. I remember the light from the setting sun castings golden rays down on you, defining the line of your shoulder blade as your body trembled with grief.
In that light, your hair was blonde again.
I went to you, touched you, made you look into my face. I asked you what was wrong but you only shook your head.
Then I looked at your shaking hands and saw what you were holding. I saw the words that you had been reading over and over in the hopes that they might change into others.
Diagnosis: Osteosarcoma. Cancer of the bone.
Prognosis: Ten months
You lasted almost twelve.
~~
But the lark had fallen silent.
You lay on that bed and wept.
~~
You died on the first Sunday in August.
When you had gone, everyone bowed their heads and looked away, but I couldn’t.
I put my hands up against the window pane and watched you soar across that last great divide.
Silent and graceful, departing alone as you had come on your glorious outstretched wings.
We were flying in tandem until the very end, but I flew into the window. I wasn’t ready that invisible barrier; the seamless transition between what lives and what dies.
I went outside and picked flowers to put by your coffin. The first flowers of spring.
~~
I still have that four-leafed clover.
I sleep with it by my bed and it gives me hope. It reminds me you’re not really gone.
I watch your fingers lift the hem of the curtain when a soft breeze blows through an open window. I see the sparkle in your eyes when the sun shines on water just right. I hear your voice in the voices of the people we love; your laughter in the symphony of birdsong.
And everywhere I go, I feel your love. It stirs me from placidness, shakes me from grief and longing, and calls me ever onward.
Life takes and it takes and it takes…but it can never take what is not bound to the earth.
I’m waiting, Janet, I'll be there soon.
I turned my face towards it and let the warmth caress my skin and the light to penetrate my soul.
That sunshine, I told myself, was you, - alive again in the wind and the earth and the delicate snowdrop’s promise of spring.
Alive, even as I watched men in black uniforms lift the mahogany coffin, laden with its canopy of flowers, carefully from the sleek black hearse. Alive in the silver tears that flashed in the sunlight, streaming from the eyes of those who loved you still.
Love not condemned as we poor mortals to one day wither and die.
I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it through your service - I feared my heart might shatter and I would be left silently screaming to the heavens, begging them to let me follow you.
But I was strong for you. I knew you were watching. I know you’re always watching, wherever you are.
Up until that very last day, I’d been prepared. We had both accepted death as a reality - we should be thankful for that, really. There had been warning, we had braced ourselves, had made our promises to one another.
Ultimately though, it didn’t make it any easier. Nothing could have prepared me to suddenly face the world without you.
I went to your funeral in my very best dress; I wore the silk scarf you loved to touch and the gold bracelet you gave me for my eleventh birthday. I had it all laid out days before because I wanted to be ready.
~~
We went to Michael’s house, remember?
I still think of it as ‘Michael’s house’, even though Emilie's family take up most of the room now. That house hasn’t changed since Meg died… it makes Michael happy to know his grandchildren will always remember her. I always tell Johns’ kids that Debbie was the most beautiful woman who ever lived.
I wonder if you’ve found her up there yet.
There’s an angel called Michael, I think - the patron saint of the sick. Is that really a coincidence? We went to Michael’s house because we were sick at heart, because he could comfort us.
He understands what it means to be left behind. He knows you can hope and pray until the cows come home, but if it is to be, it will be.
He says all you can do is have the grace to accept, to remain behind and clean the house, to be grateful for what you had…and to wait patiently for your turn.
I remember you cried when Michael talked about Eddie and William. You took me in your arms and kissed my neck and told me not to worry.
That was the day I found you the four-leafed clover in the field.
With gentle fingers, I plucked it from its hiding place before it disappeared.
You told me it was too late for luck. I touched the clover to your beautiful face and collected your tears.
I told you it was never too late for hope.
~~
I wish it hadn’t been like this…but it had to happen sometime, some way.
I went into the hospital that evening and found you on the edge of the bed. I remember the light from the setting sun castings golden rays down on you, defining the line of your shoulder blade as your body trembled with grief.
In that light, your hair was blonde again.
I went to you, touched you, made you look into my face. I asked you what was wrong but you only shook your head.
Then I looked at your shaking hands and saw what you were holding. I saw the words that you had been reading over and over in the hopes that they might change into others.
Diagnosis: Osteosarcoma. Cancer of the bone.
Prognosis: Ten months
You lasted almost twelve.
~~
But the lark had fallen silent.
You lay on that bed and wept.
~~
You died on the first Sunday in August.
When you had gone, everyone bowed their heads and looked away, but I couldn’t.
I put my hands up against the window pane and watched you soar across that last great divide.
Silent and graceful, departing alone as you had come on your glorious outstretched wings.
We were flying in tandem until the very end, but I flew into the window. I wasn’t ready that invisible barrier; the seamless transition between what lives and what dies.
I went outside and picked flowers to put by your coffin. The first flowers of spring.
~~
I still have that four-leafed clover.
I sleep with it by my bed and it gives me hope. It reminds me you’re not really gone.
I watch your fingers lift the hem of the curtain when a soft breeze blows through an open window. I see the sparkle in your eyes when the sun shines on water just right. I hear your voice in the voices of the people we love; your laughter in the symphony of birdsong.
And everywhere I go, I feel your love. It stirs me from placidness, shakes me from grief and longing, and calls me ever onward.
Life takes and it takes and it takes…but it can never take what is not bound to the earth.
I’m waiting, Janet, I'll be there soon.
