I walked outside and have never heard a quiet like this snowy Sunday evening in Stephens City. The world was still, almost paying respect to my grandma sleeping inside while her spirit prepares to leave her body. The snow promised to fall softly on the ground and there wasn’t a soul in the streets. The darkness of the midnight hour cloaked everything past the streetlight. I didn’t want to move too swiftly as to not disturb the air around me. There was peace. There is comfort in trusting the circle of life. In knowing what was happening, what was going to happen, is life in its purest form – even though that meant death. But in death, there is a renewed sense of different life. A heightened awareness of the finite time we’re given. An evolved perspective on family and when it’s worth drawing the line that hinders an embrace.
The tectonic plates pieced together across my soul are shifting. Something is expanding, growing to life-size proportion. I stare mortality in its honest eyes and ask why?
There’s always the opportunity and possibility of life, as well as the sudden cease of breath when assumed guarantees don’t deliver that day. My focus leaves the comfort and control of a life no longer promised to reach for procreation. To find the selfless strength to shift my energy to someone else. To create a shared soul from love. To replace a life given back to God.
That soul was created seven months after this was written. With curly hair, pursed lips and an old soul just like my grandmother.