The Frailty of Life

This one has been a few weeks in the making. I've been searching for the right words to make what's on my heart sound eloquent, as a fitting tribute to those we've recently lost. But nothing's come to mind.

A friend of mine died two weeks ago. I'm struck by his life and his story, and his death.

Last week, my husband's aunt took her own life. I am struck by the life she leaves behind.

So what now? I spent the hours after I found out about each in a stupor. One day, one moment, they were here, and now they are gone. On this side, death seems so final. But also on this side, life seems so frail. I clung to my husband and my son even more fiercely on those days, insisting they stay near me. I thought of things I needed to say to those that I love, because, what if? What if this is the last kiss? What if this is the last thing I say to you?

We cannot live in fear. That would choke the very life we held so tightly. It seems to be a delicate balance, an intricate dance, almost as frail as that life. I must make sure, as much as I can, that moments matter. I must have no regrets, and simply make that a part of my life and character. But I must also accept that loss is a part of this broken life and this imperfect world.

I begin the new year with a deep appreciation for this frail life, and that surrounds me. I remind myself to take the time to enjoy the feel of the brisk air or the soft fur of my kitty, the sound of my favorite song or of my son's laughter, and the way my heart swells when my husband comes home. I'm learning to enjoy each of these moments while I can, and I am so very thankful for them.