Death has a very powerful way of putting living in perspective.
My neighbor died last Thursday evening. Only 30 minutes earlier, he had been blowing leaves in his garden. While he was blowing leaves, masking the bird song, I had to chuckle; it was 8:30 p.m. Blowing leaves always seemed to be his way of settling himself in the evening; I assumed it was part of his bedtime routine. I suppose it’s fitting that he was out there with his blower right before he took the ultimate rest.
Death is decidedly weird. One minute you’re up and living, even living well, as in David’s case, and the next minute you’re gone. For those of us left alive, it’s bizarre. How could life be so fleeting? How is it that the exit can be so fast and final?
For David, as for my grandfather many years ago (who also died while doing yard work), it was a quick passing—maybe even one to be envied. I know many people, including my mother, who suffered for years in humiliating decline before death finally ushered them into a more peaceful place. Those of us who go quickly are perhaps the blessed, the lucky ones. Better to get it over with in an instant than suffer years of decline.
People say, life is short: Do the thing you want to do. Right now, that line feels painfully obvious. Usually that phrase is bandied about, offered up as a way to give ourselves permission to do the thing we want, like buy the horse or take the vacation or retire. I have experienced enough death in my life that now I am determined to heed the phrase. Do the thing now. Refrain from getting caught up in silly things, don’t worry about the small stuff, and focus on being grateful for every single day regardless of what it brings.
The birds were singing this morning, just like they always do. The deer were out too, doing what deer do. Everyone was going on living, even though David isn’t. The day after David died, I didn’t feel much like doing anything. I mean, why bother doing anything when I’m just going to die too? My husband also will die, maybe before me. Who knows: It might be today or tomorrow. Whenever it is, it will be too soon. So, I was feeling: What’s the point? Living felt cruel in a way—just a waiting game until the universe decides your number is up.
Days have passed, and I’ve brightened up. I’ve thought a lot about David, and how he lived. He was a funny, pragmatic, and extremely kind guy. He was a terrific neighbor, the kind who brings you the best homemade apricot jam you will ever have, throws a line over the fence so that you can borrow some juice from his generator when the power goes out (again), and goes out walking his dogs, patrolling the neighborhood many times a day. David is the kind of guy who would have us all go on living, breathing, eating good jam, and patrolling.
Dave, I went out and did your walk today. I said hello to the hawks, the cottontails in the bushes, the deer, and the squirrels. They’re all good. We’re all good. We miss you a lot, and I am still enjoying your best jam yet. I hope heaven has as good a jam as yours. Thanks for all the love and the inspiration to keep doing the things.
