Seasons

The leaves were still decaying in brilliant hues—colors that felt personal this time, neon signs pointing at my loss. I had left him the week before and was numbly packing and making plans when I got the call from Sara, telling me that her dear friend’s wife had suddenly passed. She asked if I would play piano for the funeral.

I set aside the boxes and began working on the setlist that afternoon.

The widower wanted music that was beautiful, beyond that, he had only had two specific requests to be included before and after the speeches—"Clair de Lune,” and a song by Norah Jones, “I Don’t Know Why.”

A week later, I showed up at the funeral home with an armload of music books. There were no black suits in the crowd, and though sadness permeated everything, it was overpowered by gratitude… for the time shared with this woman who had taken every opportunity to spread love and joy freely to all in her path. As I began to play, the expressions in the crowd softened, and we leaned in and grieved the ever-changing nature of life together. There were speeches, pictures, tears, laughter, and stories shared of a life well-lived. The speaker sat down and nodded towards me, and I started the final song:

“When I saw the break of day
I wished that I could fly away
Instead of kneeling in the sand
Catching teardrops in my hand
My heart is drenched in wine
But you’ll be on my mind…

Forever.

Out across the endless sea
I would die in ecstasy
But I’ll be a bag of bones
Driving down the road alone
My heart is drenched in wine
But you’ll be on my mind…

Forever

Something has to make you run
I don’t know why I didn’t come
I feel as empty as a drum
I don’t know why I didn’t come
I don’t know why I didn’t come”

The last notes faded like a sigh. I was crying. When we looked up and at each other, the load was lighter. The rows emptied, and the community began to mingle and give long hugs; I collected my books and slipped out, back into my own familiar tragedy.

I rolled the windows down as I drove away and let the spiced air fill my lungs. I took the long way back that afternoon and meandered down lanes bursting with color. My thoughts unfolded slowly as the currents in the breeze spread my fingers wide. A sliver of light began to warm the ache in me, and I began to sense the edges of a truth that would take me years longer to step into: the ability to love wholeheartedly is a gift—even after we believe it to be over. Amidst death or divorce or any other perceived ending, changing season, or altered course, living with hope and trust in this force that compels and magnetizes us makes it all worth it. Come what may.

In a lifespan
as brief as ours,
perhaps the line
between endings and beginnings
is of our own making.

So, may we love
again, and all the more
freely,
without regret
Or running
But with
open hands
for this is all of life.
This is
Everything.