Passages

Steve and Michael in Spain, 2012

When we moved into Saint John's in 2018, I loved everything about the place with one exception. When someone died, a photo was hung on the bulletin boards along with the dates of their birth and passing and an announcement about the funeral plan and memorial. Not every day, or even every week, but more than once a month, someone would be gone. Not surprising with a community of around 400 persons, but still, seeing the announcements was a little like reading the obituaries, something I never cared to do. 

I've come to feel these notices are a gift to me as my numbers grow and I'm closer to passing on.
After all, we're all headed in the same direction. Best to accept the inevitable and see it as a normal part of life. At least that how I've come to feel most days. I find my tears are further away from me and I hold onto the belief that when the body is filled with pain and trauma, it's time to let it go.

But when someone dies who is very close to you, there's a book that is closed as well, a history that ends. I've lost a wonderful friend of more than sixty years this week. He's been ill for quite a while and I knew it was expected. Steve isn't here to share my grief, leaving as he did a year ago. But this is a sad moment for me and my family as we remember the wonderful times we shared, the trips we took together, family milestones we shared and the humor that sustained us. Years ago, before the internet was even a dream, Steve and I used to call Michael when we couldn't remember the name of a movie or a book we'd enjoyed together. He was our own private New York Library.

Thinking today of Michael Kaplan with love, and the wonderful times we shared together.