The seasons, like life, shift from spring, to summer, to
fall, to winter, marking the passage of time with tulips, green grass, dips in
the lake, a blanket of leaves shaded in crimson, soon to be covered with the
first snow, clean as angel wings. The cycle repeats, ad infinitum, but my body,
bones crinkling and skin wrinkling, sits on the deck in my oak rocking chair,
observing the passage of glory fading, too many friends succumbing to illness,
and an aunt diagnosed with terminal cancer.
Death, I think, is just another season. And we fear it
because we don’t understand it. We miss our loved ones that have crossed over,
that have peered into death’s eyes and begun their new season. I miss our
conversations, hugs, and laughter. I think that if I could collect my tears in
a bucket, they would water my garden, and the lettuce would taste like salt. My
mom says that my tears honor the dead, that they drink them from a golden cup,
and realize how well they were loved.
My tears cascade down cheeks splotched with red. I look in
the mirror and wonder who is staring at me. She smiles with my smile, and we
laugh, reaching across the glass to embrace. She holds my memories, says she
will cherish them and keep them safe. In this way, I rest assured that the
goodbyes that push up my horizon, a veritable cliff of goodbyes, will not go
unheeded. That my friends in their new season will live in my heart, that fall
and winter, the seasons of goodbyes, will once again shift to spring and
summer, and I will relish the scent of lavender and dip my toes into the cool
waters of our glorious lake once again.
