At this point in my life, I feel as though I’m reaching out, towards life and death, simultaneously somehow. Life abounds; we toil, reap, sow, lament and wonder, but I think of my father. I think of good men who come undone, without warning, without quarter, and return to dust, and memory, and a silent threnody that hums and thrums in our bones, unheard, but for the moments that linger at the edge of awareness. The moment between moments, the stillness between heartbeats. One day, soon enough, I will occupy that stillness, and I pray that I may know the embrace of fulfilment, of the beatific vision, where to no avail, I might cry out, about how unworthy I have been. I pray I know the consolation, of being so very right, and so very wrong at the same time, but finally, for better, not for worse.
Between heartbeats
