To Mrs. B.
Death is such a hard thing. It forces us to look at our own mortality and take measure of our life. These feelings have filled me today since attending a Memorial Mass for a close friend this morning. I say ’close’ though I had not seen her for almost 20 years, yet she and her whole family are an intrinsic part of who I am.
Mrs. B. was the mother of three beautiful children and wife to a loving husband. As much of my youth was spent playing with her family as it was with mine. They were good people, the type stories are written about. Mrs. B. baked goodies for us kids, talked to us, played with us, and made us feel special and a part of her life. She welcomed every new family to the neighborhood with her cooking, her conversation, and her warm heart. She and my mother would spend countless hours talking and laughing. When the mold for the ideal neighbor was made, she and her family were the design from which it was modeled.
She died suddenly. Complaining of back pain, her husband took her to the hospital. While tests were being performed on her to determine the problem, she just quit breathing. The whole world gently shuddered at the loss.
Attending her Mass, seeing the familiar faces of childhood friends, gazing upon my old school with the playground filled with young children wearing uniforms seemingly identical to the one I wore decades ago, it was impossible not to cry.
I look back at my life and wonder how it would have been different if certain choices were made. I look to the future knowing the choices I make today will be an important part of who I am tomorrow. Here is a wish that we all make smart choices… and, to Mrs. B. the world was better for the choices you made. Thank you for being a part of my life.
The lesson I take away from death is to live, and to live well.
As I often do, I will leave you with a poem. This one has been a favorite of mine for many years. Dylan Thomas wrote this near his father’s death. It was surely a wish for his father to fight for life, but there is no historical evidence he ever showed the poem to his father. It may have been something the poet needed to think and write for himself in the face of the inevitable.
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
