SUMMER 2010Phil Anthony
CoordinatorIt's not for me to say that someone died too soon. For all I know, my friend was ready. Or more than ready. I’ve felt like that sometimes.
Sometimes I roll the words around in my mouth. I bite into them. I turn them over on my tongue—It’s time!—as if to try them out. To taste them, and see if there is Truth in them. Or, possibly, to reassure myself.
And sometimes, when I’m not too tired, I think I hear an answer, quietly: Not yet. It echoes in the silence. Or, sometimes, only silence.
Anyway, too soon for what? For my convenience, or my taste? As if the world exists for my convenience! (Well? Doesn’t it?)
No, let my grief be honest. It’s not my friend I’m mourning, it’s my loss. My own, and yours, and ours. For the silent scream of absence around me, and inside me, that I have to live with now. For possibilities made impossible by time.
One day my turn will come. It’s time! I’ll whisper. Scared perhaps, or thankful, maybe even hoping. With a thrill, or a shiver, I’ll taste the clean, sharp tang of Truth.
And when I do, dear friend, don’t say it was too soon. Ask instead if I had the grace to hear the quiet, calm reply: Yes. Now. Come.
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Last modified:
Thursday, May 27, 2010 at 01:49 AM
