Breathe it in

This morning I overheard two women talking.
"He's still crazy,
hasn't outgrown his wildness.
I wish I could just stay at home with him," she said.
Her friend replied, "I know what you mean."

I do too.

Less than a week ago we held our precious
friend/companion as he left his body.
Exhausted from weeks of hoping against hope, loving,
nursing, dreading, deliberating,
crying more than I thought possible.
Remembering times I imagined a house without dog
hair on every piece of clothing and furniture, a time when
travel would be without a care.
And at the same time wanting
these petty inconveniences not to matter.

Wisdom comes more easily with hindsight.

When our oldest human child was a toddler I recall sitting
around a dinner out, whining about the all-encompassing job
of parenting. Across the table, a look of irritation, maybe
disgust, shot my way from a veteran mother with grown
children. She warned me that it goes too quickly. Feeling
embarrassed, shallow and young, I said nothing more.

When my now grown children were young, I felt an urgency to
go back to work. Now it's one of my few regrets.

I want to integrate the wisdom
that each moment with those we love
is a gift we can't be sure we'll have again.

I crave to know it completely.

My Uncle Sol, may his memory be for a blessing, was quoted
in "Tuesdays with Morrie" on page 52 (the age my
father was when he died).
"Love is the only rational act."