Mike died, my brother died, my father died. But I am alive. I walked fast this morning, sweating hard, listening to R.L. Burnside. I chuckled at myself, amused that at that moment I was probably the only 64-year-old woman walking in Great Falls Park listening to R.L. Burnside on my iPod.
I stopped at 7-11 and bought an iced mocha coffee. I did it just because I could, because I am alive.
This isn’t a new thought but it changes shape, it looks different and smells different as time goes by. People I love have died, yet I have a separate fate from theirs. My life intersects the lives of others, including some with whom I have deep attachments. I don’t detach easily. Like duct tape on a hairy man’s chest, it hurts to detach. And for me the attachment lingers, slowly and painfully. But maybe that’s just the way I am—blessed to care deeply though cursed to feel the loss so intensely.
I want to celebrate the subtle nuances of life. I want to feel the heat of the day, I want to savor an iced coffee, I want to listen to music. I want to realize that my path in life has me here, now, that I can appreciate that in these moments I am alive.