Perhaps because my dear friend is leaving to live near her daughter in Paris, all of my senses are honed to a point of pain. I spot one of her favorite umbrellas poking out of a box waiting to be taped shut. I will never see it again. The life in me rises up in protest, grasping at every detail as if an act of will could freeze this—in fact, every precious moment—in time. I don’t like feeling pain, but there is something exquisite about this heightened degree of passion, too.
My youngest grandson, earlier today, tossed a book into my lap and demanded that he be read to. I am too slow for him, sticky fingers competing with mine to turn the page. My older grandson, earphones blocking out the chatter, listening to a book on his phone. I have to tap him on the arm, first lightly, then firmly, to capture his attention long enough to say goodbye for the day. When I do, he surprises me, throwing his arms around me. But of course, even this is transitory.
I leave their home as I left my friend’s apartment, followed by wandering through the grocery store then around the block with three shuffling dogs. I am a hungry ghost, already feeling the hopelessness of holding onto what is already the past, all the while cherishing the poignant passion of the present moment: the twin souls of love and pain.
I feel it in every perfectly ripe heirloom tomato, in the furry black ears on Molly scanning like antennas and our oldest dog Sammy’s impossibly crooked tail. It’s even in the bottle of St. Joseph’s Children’s Aspirin I picked up at the pharmacy, a remedy I recall fondly from my childhood–recently prescribed to protect my heart.
But life, today, offers no protection.
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