He hovered around her, fluffing her pillows and clearing away her uneaten breakfast. He cheerfully reported all that he had accomplished so early in the day, and wondered what else he could do for her before taking off again into his busyness. And she lay there smiling, and dying.
After he left, she continued talking to me about the meaning of her life. She didn’t need his help with that. She only needed from him what he had to give.
The dance of life as death approaches is intimately serene in this hospital room. He flitters around, calmed by his steady course of action. She lies quietly bathed in the light of her own growing spirit.
There are tears, of course. But they are the kind that flow from a heart that is slowly beating its final rhythmic lullaby. They are the sweet tears that are shed for the beauty of it all. For life. For love. For graces bestowed.
He will keep moving when she’s gone. And then one day he will either join her, or he will slow down and find unexpected comfort in the sound of his own heartbeat. No matter which way it goes, she will be there, loving him.