Hello…

I am here.

Does anyone read this, or do I throw my words out into the vast black hole of cyberspace?  Is this blog simply an indulgence for me; a way for the writer in me, though dying, to make one last stand?  Is this an immortality; if I was to die tomorrow, this blog would still be here.  Not forever, but you could come read my words and remember.  You could print off my entries and compile them together; gather my poetry and put it in a three-ring binder; sit late at night with your tea, and read, and think, and remember that I once was.

If I have seemed morbid recently, forgive me.  I have lost a great deal, and the last two weeks have reinforced my own mortality.  Reinforced that time is short, and life is sweet, and when it’s over…when it’s over, what is left?
Of course I believe in the Christian concept of Heaven, though I question the whole gold-roads-and-shining-streams thing.  All I truly know is that once I am freed from this frail, difficult prison of flesh I will dwell in the presence of God.  And that is enough for me.

But what is left for those that are left behind?  What mark do I leave?  This scribbles of ink and dots on paper or screen? 

I have read David’s poetry tonight; some of the old stuff we used to write together that I dug out of the attic.  I see his comments still scribbled on my papers, and the diet coke that Cheryl or Pam or Ronelle spilled on my notebook one night, creasing the edges and staining the paper. I see the old ink puddling under my tears, new tears that I cry and let fall onto te pages.  I clipped the newspaper articles of his death and slipped them into the old notebook, then laid it back into the box.

Someday, perhaps, many years hence, my own daughter will stumble across these papers, and draw them out, leafing through, wondering who this mysterious David was, and what these words all mean.  And perhaps she will come and ask me(though, knowing my child, she’ll just go hit google first), and I will tell her what I can of the time and place in my life that David shared.  Maybe someday she will have her own David, and I will be able to wrap her in my arms and whisper that I know the pain of loss, and I know it because I walked this road, and I grieved, and those ink smears on the paper are mine.

And I say this so that David leaves more than simply poetry and thoughts behind.  His legacy is more than simply those worn pages in a box in my attic; I trust his legacy, in part, will be what he gave to me in life–joy, and hope, and appreciation for the simple things–and what he has given me in death–wonder, compassion, and appreciation for life.  And perhaps someday I can pass this on, something more than stained words, but hope for someone else who grieves.