Day Twenty Three
Writing Practice
So many stages and layers and chunks of time rolling by accumulating an array of neurosis and hope and shame and joy and disgust and jealousy and love and grace. This being human is real. Real. Real. Real.
I just read a young woman’s obituary, one that she wrote herself before she transitioned a few days ago. I laughed as she reminded her husband to take care of the creatures in the backyard because they mean a lot to her and the kids. I open up my journal five minutes later and I read note to self: Create a plan for your death. Craft and fire up an urn, paint or etch one of your glorious ladies; and for Theo a mystical ancient lion. And well I stopped there. I can’t imagine sculpting and painting and inscribing something for Maya. Nope. Nope. Nope. But I could create something for mom, although pretty sure she would rather store bought. But if I could, I would engrave Italian blessings “Molte Grazie Mamma!”
May i/we find courage to become delicately familiar with death.