Journal and pen in my hand, I sit staring at the leaves on the trees tossing in the wind.
Above my head hangs a thousand paper cranes; good luck cranes. An old Japanese story tells that the crane can live for a thousand years and that if a sick person folds one thousand cranes, the gods will grant his wish and make him healthy again.
A breeze from the open window makes the paper birds rustle and sway. My thoughts turn to my son. He is part of a warm loving circle, nothing, not even death, could ever change that. This knowing restores my faith as I once again journey though grief following the death of a close friend I loved with my whole heart for forty-eight years.
Once again I’m circling the crater, in the privacy of wind, with wild violets blooming around me. Pain and heartache, streaming down my face. From flesh and blood, to souls and songs, and et I feel wings beneath me, begin to beat, knowing that I will again rise.
Memories roll over me. I’m like a seashell rolling in and out with the tide. I think about the me that emerges within certain friendships. How he listened to me, and told me the truth even when it was hard for me to hear. How he was able to stay open and feel vulnerable and be genuine and kind, even in the middle of our most challenging conversations, and the opening effect it had on me.
On my desk there is a photograph, taken by my friend, in which I’m standing in the ocean. I look at this picture and remember the grin on his face and the wave that washed over me seconds after the snapshot was taken.
