Sunday, August 6, 2017

death --that great butterfly

It is late and I am very tired. Rebecca is safe.  The whole family is intact. It's amazing how often things stay fine in a world full of risk. Hubby and the nephew and his friend aren't in trouble with reference to the first hike they did. The minivan did not have an accident. The mother did not have any problems moving to my brother's place for the day. It's amazing that in a world full of troubles, problems and accidents that everything in my family is shipping along OK.

Sure Rebecca had another fall.  Sure I have had some falls. Sure mum has fallen. But there you go. Teaches us to be more careful about how we gad about and take extra time to return to the Villa.

Life is good. And I am grateful that we are still here relatively intact.

One day there will be a tear in reality as there was when my aunty Daya died of breast cancer. Then all the begging thoughts in my head will be replaced with the fact of death. Once that happens you can't simply go on. You have to take the time-sometimes years to touch the sore spot and to heal.

My aunty Daya was special.  She was special to me.  And she's gone. Why do good people like her get taken so early in life?  Why are bad people roaming around like predators?  Why? I guess it's the way it is.  These things happen. Deal with it.

But how?  I don't know. I simply think about my aunty Daya--I think about how she spent her whole life looking after other people and then she had to die first--before all the other people she took care of. It seems so unfair.

When I saw Rebecca drop like a smashed jug on the ground today it reminded me how unfair life is. Here she is so afflicted with illnesses and she gets more trouble.  But there you go. Accept.  Change the practice of moving her around.  Take more time to go back to the Villa. Don't hurry.  It's all part of life.  And she is still here. My aunty Daya is not.

Why?  Some of us get called to death earlier than others. Some of us are pressed silent. And others --like myself keep rattling on and on --as if death could be talked out of coming.

But death can't be talked out of coming. Death is a butterfly flying overhead always. Accidents sometimes remind us of that winged presence.

☆ Boy And Butterfly :¦: Artist Remedios Varo ☆

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