“In Mexico they say when someone you
love dies, a part of you dies with them. But they forget to mention hat a part
of them is born in you—not immediately, I’ve learned, but eventually, and
gradually. It’s an opportunity to be reborn. When you are in between births,
there should be some way to indicate to all, “Beware, I am not as I was before.
Handle me with care.”
I wish somebody had told me then
that death allows you the chance to experience the world soulfully, that the
heart is open like the aperture of a camera, taking in everything, painful as
well as joyous, sensitive as the skin of water.
I wish somebody had told me to draw
near me objects of pure spirit when living between births. My dogs. The trees
along the San Antonio River. The sky and clouds reflected in its water. Wind
with its scent of spring. Flowers, especially the sympathetic daisy.
I wish somebody had told me love
does not die, that we can continue to receive and give love after death.
There is no getting over death, only
learning how to travel alongside it. It knows no linear time. Sometimes the
pain is as fresh as if it just happened. Sometimes it’s a space I tap with my
tongue daily like a missing molar.” ~Sandra Cisneros, Have You Seen Marie?
Painting by Elisabeth Slettnes
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