The Wheel of Life

And when her breath was done,
Took up her simple wardrobe
And started for the sun.
Her little figure at the gate
The angels must have spied,
Since I could never find her
Upon the mortal side.
~ Emily Dickinson

Family and friends gather in sombre silence to observe the final ritual of life. Gerberas explode in a dazzling array of colour atop a gleaming coffin in whose cushioned folds lies only the body that once bore life; hands that worked & loved, crafted and created whose gentle gestures are already missed; a face wreathed in a lifetime of smiles and tears and all the expressions between the two; deep lines that held wisdom and knowing, the understanding and acceptance that comes to those lucky enough to have time to make peace with the fate we all face.

Three generations of her kin mark her life. The stoic son who charts her chronology, his voice barely concealing its cracking. Her grandson all grown up whose bittersweet words beautifully acknowledge her deep love, abiding and unconditional, for the family that all sprang from her. Her great granddaughter in a pretty dress with a sparkly bow in her hair to honour the woman whose passing has brought her life's most difficult lesson so young. It is she who surrenders to her grief most honestly of all as her voice shakes and falters by laying her little head down on the podium, her tiny shoulders heaving with sobs. The words are spoken. The curtains are drawn. We were each so blessed to know you Shirley.

Un-winged and naked, sorrow surrenders its crown to a throne called grace.
~ Aberjhani

I cradle the tiny baby in my arms only hours later, just days old. He is pure perfection and holds the promise and potential of life yet to be lived. His proud new mother enamoured, his newly minted grandmother's shining eyes upon them both, this room too filled with flowers. Hope and love shimmer in the space between exclamations of a different kind and I am struck once more. Welcome to this world, Conor.

Tears track down my face as I drive home at sunset to fall into the arms of a beloved. These perpetual cycles into which we are woven as life and death prove rebirth. And still we never know when, which sunset or kiss or hasty word could be our last. Or first.

Each night, when I go to sleep, I die. And the next morning, when I wake up, I am reborn.
~ Mahatma Gandhi

Words c. Kerrie Basha 2016