I threw myself at a baby in the café today. Her eyes were soft then wild, she was purely in the moment, drooling like a bulldog, high as a kite on life. I swooped her into my arms and spun her round and round, colored lights swirling in her flashing brain… or was it mine?
My 97 year-old pal Lou is on his last legs. Six weeks ago, his companion found him lying on the bathroom floor, in a confused state and a fine mood, and it’s been downhill for my best friend Naomi’s smiling songbird father ever since.
Curled up on the cold tiles, Lou was characteristically upbeat, repeating again and again that he hadn’t fallen, he was just feeling tired and had laid down for a nap. They didn’t discover until hours later, that he had broken his near 100 year-old hip.
Weeks before the fall, I had gone with Naomi to his decaying, old peeps’ home for a visit. When we walked into his room, knowing that I have his blessing, I grabbed my phone and snapped this pic, taking in Lou’s self-embrace while sound asleep, deeply happy, in his living dream.
No need to wake him, whispering, joyful, we agreed.
Yesterday, my heart grew again when I received news that a fatally ill woman I know had asked her doctor to help her die at the age of 48. Her ex-husband and best friends are caring for her at home, with her two beautiful, teenage daughters by her side, drenching her with love. When our paths would cross over ten years ago, I remember how she took such fierce and tender care of them. Her doctor put her into a coma yesterday, she may be dead as I type these words, she may be dead right now.
I am way past believing death is unjust.
Back in my arms at the café, Abigail opens her tiny mouth and starts to wail. Wise, old Joe the hugger walks in to the crowded, noisy room, I dance over and drop the baby into his arms.
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