Living Architecture- Monday with Marley

There is no picture to look at this morning.

A picture, once taken, is always past tense.

A person, once dead, is a picture, past, spent.

Ann Butler, our next door neighbor and Lynn's best friend, died, slipped away, passed away, passed on, moved on, graduated, she left us, yesterday morning.

Ben, her husband, wasn't supposed to live as long as Ann. But he did. He survives her and now looks at pictures held captive between leaves of plastic.

His memories, our memories, are pictures in our heads. We turn to them one leaf at a time to remember.

My mother's name is Winona. She called back yesterday when I left a message about Ann's passing. She and Ann shared phone calls of encouragement in their shared battles with cancer.

Always up, Winona offered her sure and sweet knowledge that Ann was with God.

"Yup", I said then asked Mom how she was feeling. "How is your energy, Mom?"

"Oh, I get tired if I don't take my minerals four times a day and I can't get out on my recumbent bike for my five mile runs with so much snow on the ground. I so can't wait for summer!"

A silent moment stretched then she added, "Have you written the poem for my funeral, son?"

"Not yet, Mom", I squirmed, "It's kind of weird, you know, writing a poem about you now, a poem I'm supposed to read to everybody when you're dead."

"Well", she sang in her whispering way, "I want to proof read it, son". She giggled, "I want to make sure you get everything right."

If I'm lucky, I have maybe a year before all I have are pictures of Mom and my memories, snap-shot moments in time. We stitch precious moments together to remember.

There is no picture to look at this morning,

because sometimes it's better to remember the touchings and the smells and the sounds our loved ones make before it's too late.

Every moment of every day we are creating pictures by what we do and what we say.

The picture album of our lives, our own Book of Life, is built up one thought and one action at a time. The present becomes past so damned quickly.

What will be read when you're dead?

Isn't it time to get writing the good stuff!