We didn't set out for amazing ... or even noteworthy.
We set out to sit with a friend whose father was in the hospital.
To give our friendship and support.
Solace from a night of loneliness and worry.
On our way, a text... "He's not doing well."
Upon arrival, one look, and the spilling out in halted phrases of sorrow, disbelief, fear of coming reality, and desire for final comfort and rest.
She longing to sit and be held. Standing. Arms folded. Pressing into her chest. Folding hair behind her ears. Pressing palms into her face to wipe away the sorrow. Restless to return to his bedside.
We had stepped into the last moments of the earthly life of our dear friend's father.
As she returned to his bedside, we sat.
Moments of silence.
Moments of laughter.
Her mother's friends. Now arrive. They, too, met as mothers. Children now grown.
Our future in their faces. We should be so lucky.
Two generations. Concentric circles surround our sister, daughter, friend.
She returns."He's Gone."
The first generation holds her tight. Stands firm. Breathing love into her empty spaces.
Then we fellow mothers. Friends. Gather round. Hold her up.Cry her tears. Breathe her sorrow.
It's time to rest. There will be meals to prepare. Plans to make. Details to arrange.
And we will be here. To hold. To cry. To Breathe. To love.
Until the empty spaces become warm and familiar.
And the missing becomes more ordinary than the having.