Glioblastoma

Sitting on the porch with a coffee

Waiting for the day to begin.

My father slipping away from us one drop a day.

A name forgotten, a stumble, a tear, a disease.

All things become clearer even as they cloud with grief.

And I pull from a deep river inside where peace resides.

Where joy and humor and, above all, gratitude reside.

A river where others are welcome and some drink deeply of the cool water when they find it.

A thirst we all have.

A river many of us can’t find.

I did not create the river, but uncovered it.

Removing layers of stories and injuries and nonsense I had placed on it for decades.

But the river was pure as ever once I removed the debris.

Unconcerned with my silliness, my recklessness that once hid its source.

And now I sit with my father, my hero, my lighthouse,

Helping him remember, helping him walk, watching him accept with courage and grace

this fast-moving death that approaches.

He cries often now, my stoic, sensible, Scottish father.

But not of grief or regret. Only of love and gratitude.

He is beautiful to see.

And the things I believe to be true are now seared into me as true.

Love. Forgive. Have grace. And love some more.

So my river is deeper now. Daily.

And sadder. And more joyful.

It does not stop flowing when someone dies.

It does not stop flowing when a heart is broken or a baby is born.

It gently flows always in everyone, the same connected river.

His is connected to mine. To everyone's. And will be when he dies. And always.

So I drink from it to sustain me and remind me and comfort me, even as I allow my heart to break.

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