I just got back from a visitation.
The kind you go to when someone you know has died.
I didn't know this guy.
I mildly know his wife. Amy.
She's a light-filled being that I admire.
They have a one year old daughter. Sadie Grace.
Her husband had a heart attack 2 years ago.
He committed himself to health.
Changed the way he ate.
Started working out.
Riding his bike.
Rode in fund-raisers and competitions.
Monday night he went out to ride.
Training for a 100 mile ride to raise funds for Childhood Leukemia.
He didn't come home.
Amy didn't think much. He rode long distances.
She got a call.
We couldn't rescesitate him.
No more bedtime stories from Daddy.
No more walks at dusk.
No more daily love texts.
No more kisses good morning.
No more dutch ovens under the covers.
No more of him.
In an instant.
Life changed for her.
In the shadow of a benign evening at home.
The whole thing has cast a shadow on me.
I believe this isn't the end.
I believe we can make it through anything set before us.
I believe that dying is like birth to another experience.
Why do I want to hold Eric close and gasp with gratitude for every extra day I have with him?
Why do I wonder if the next moment will take me?
Take someone I love?
My mind and heart are full of tumult.
Not even truly fearful.
Yet, on some level, I sit alone in a corner, covered by a blanket, my knees pulled tight.
Don't change my world.
It's the condition of life, change.
My world changes in every blink of every moment.
Even if it's not within the walls of my house today.
It changes for someone.
It changed for Amy.