through this life we pass,
here only for seventeen
syllables, three lines
This is not the usual sort of wordy Friday Ramble, but it is Friday, and so this is a ramble of sorts nevertheless.
Last Friday around noon, the newest little flower in our family garden came into the world (on the solstice no less), a blonde and blue eyed baby girl who is a wonder to behold and as beautiful as any rose. Her overjoyed parents named her River, and I can't think of a better name for our wee girl.
Within a day or two of little River's entry into the world came the heartbreaking news that my much loved sister Barbara is terminally ill and won't be here with us for much longer. The cancer she has been fighting for such a long time and with such grace and courage has metastasized, and there is no use in considering surgery, radiation or more chemotherapy. All that we can do is make her comfortable, and that is what is being done.
As happy as I am about my new great granddaughter's coming this week, I try to picture the great wide world without my sister's bright spirit in it, and I simply cannot. For most of our grown up lives, we have lived at least a thousand miles apart physically, but we've never been further away from each other than a breath or a laugh or a telephone call, and we were always walking around in each other's thoughts and happy to be doing it.
Here I am again, standing by the rural pond that has sustained me at such times in the past. A ramble is a random thing, and my thoughts here this morning are random indeed - they are as scattered and nebulous and amorphous as an early summer fog. Adrift on these wilder waters with their reeds and lilypads and carp, even breathing hurts sometimes, but just breathing in and out is what I shall do. If there is a word for this week, it is sorrow.