Destiny rarely follows the pattern we would choose for it and the legacy of death often shapes our lives in ways we could not imagine. Death comes to everyone in their time – to some a parting, to some a release. We who are nearest fo with them up the long golden stairs – up – up. A trumpet shrills – a gate clangs and we are left standing without. Then down the long stairs we retrace our steps to earth – an earth that is all numb and still – so still that one hears strange sounds – catches strange vagrant notes on one’s heightened senses. But small hands are tugging and voices are insistent.
“Will he ever come back from that other place?”
“Oh no, he doesn’t want to come back!”
“Does he like it there?”
“Oh yes, he loves it”
“Well then that’s good.” And happy laughter rings through the tall green pines and along the rocks and sandy beaches by the sea.
No one grudges him his place in the sun.
Note: the author, widowed in 1927 packed her five children onto a 25-foot boat and cruised the coastal waters of Bristish Columbia, summer after summer.
Blanchet, M, Whylie. 1968. The Curve of Time. Gray’s Publishing, British Columbia, Canada p. 161-162.