Eight years ago we lived this day. Today we remember it.

~ As We’d Lived

When are we supposed to die?

On a sunny Sunday in the country,

a breeze billowing the white curtains?

There would, of course, be loved ones encircling the bed

with all things having been said and heard,

forgiveness nesting warmly in every heart

and permission sincerely granted from each side—

permission to be happy again someday

and permission to go.

They say we die as we lived,

so long as it’s a slow death,
I guess they mean—

true colors emerging and all.

But what if you lived a really good life,

a really decent life,

where you never stopped dating your wife

of forty-three years

and even wise people came to you

for guidance . . .

where you placed your steady self

in the chaos of strangers

because your own center of gravity

pulled them to their senses?

What if you were really good

at being human

and wanted to keep being one

but couldn’t

because of the body you’d hitched a ride in?

What if you did all you could

but your day to die fell on a muggy Tuesday

with construction going on down the street?

What if you’d made the Path of Peace

your path

but every ten minutes a truck rumbled past,

shaking the walls and window panes

and your hospice-issued bed?

Then I guess you would die as you’d lived:

in a world where you can count on things

not going according to plan . . .

a world where you don’t get to choose
the lessons or their disguises

but you do get to choose what to do

with your heart.

Sometimes, when there’s no good

medical explanation,

a heart will just keep beating, say,

long enough for the laborers

to park their noisy trucks and go home.

And maybe when, at last,

you just don’t take the next breath,

the weary few who bear witness

will share in that silence,

like no other silence,

for a holy moment.