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Miraculous Unwinding
She is sleeping. I put my face close to her face to confirm the gentle inhale and exhale before I sit down in the chair next to her bed. Her body is completely still, curled up into fetal position.
The house is quiet. Her dog is asleep on the reclining chair. I hear the dryer humming in the basement and the soft rustle of leaves outside the window.
One of her hands lays apart from her body, close to the edge of the bed. I arrange my book in one hand, and slowly ease my other hand underneath hers. She wraps her fingers around mine and squeezes, then rests, our fingers entwined.
I am fortunate to have friends who don’t shy away from grief and death and sorrow. A few days ago, one of them sent me a text message asking, “How are you?” I knew the question was real.
I replied: “I have discovered that I am terrible at holding drinks steady for other people, but I am amazing at scalp massage. I am okay with this.”
My friend respond with a heart, the electronic acknowledgement that the most loving response is simple witnessing. I see you. I hear you. Were I there in person, I would hug you.
This soothes my heart.
After the funeral, we carry in the photographs, leftover programs, and flowers. There is one arrangement that arrived at the church on an upright metal…