Sometimes smack in the middle of your life it gets upended.
Grace dies. Your transmission dies. Hope is on life support. You miss the Irish wake, but a friend gives you a lift to the funeral. There in the church you see the bereaved family. Eight of Grace’s nine children. Less Betsy who died in the car crash at oh so tender an age.
Your friend Bridgett is inconsolable. Her Mom, Grace was ninety-two years old when she died. She always told you she had no fear of death. That she was ready and waiting.
“But”, Grace said, “I must still have work to do with all the kids, grandkids and great-grandkids.”
You suppose today that her work was finally done. It is time to rest.
Grace was one hell of a hot ticket. She loved Duffy’s, an occasional off color joke and a good stiff drink. She loved her work. At ninety-one she told you she wanted to go back to work. She was a career nurse, a lifelong caregiver, a loving healer. A deeply loved Mom.
In church you genuflect, sit, stand, kneel. Repeat. Pray with the family.
You confess, the ball of incense is your favorite part.
That and the fact that Grace and friends led you here.
Back to the dead transmission and the dying hope. Bereft, that night you looked to the sky. Observed all those stars blurred through tears. Hope, fizzled and frazzled. On a whim you reached up into the infinite indigo spaces between the stars. Requested Grace. Stardust softly settles on your lashes. You sleep.
New morn awakens gentle voices. Friends offering help.
How sweet the Sound.