The next day after my neighbor died begins in gold, fades to common light.

Much loss for one family; much to think about for everyone else.  There are few things emptier than a house whose long-time resident is dead. Rooms have many stories, windows have tales to tell. The light still angles in onto the desk, but the eyes that loved that sight are gone. And, in time, all that's left for others is what's leached out--moments, the voice saying something it said for years, the way that body moved, the particulars that remain, but which will be refined by time down to the gold each needs.

It occurs to me that each of us is in a small boat on the ocean with a tiger--is the tiger life? Is it death? Are those words both sides of the same thing?
 


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Allan DiBiase
03/28/2013 12:07pm

I've often thought that when we consider death of another we are inescapably thinking of our own death. Whether we will be able to fictionalize it or not? Create a portrait of it into which we will walk.

But sometimes death steals us away. Or perhaps, like my friend Phil: He died incrementally for ten
years, living as fully as he could right to the last breath. To me he was the living embodiment of acceptance and strength in face of what we face.

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