Nobody taught us how to age. Especially how to keep shuffling around, but not off, this mortal coil, while others move on, sometimes, tragically, way too soon. There’s a nagging whisper of guilt in our remaining here, complaining about the inevitable deterioration of our bodies, when someone vibrant and loved is whisked away.

As we age, we ever more frequently witness the passing of those who are dear to us. In the past week, the past year, the past decade, we have seen disease and the torments of inexpressible despair take away too many lights of our lives. With each one, the world seems a little darker. Yet we persist.

We wake in the morning to the beauty of the world and go about the chores and delights of the day, while the deep-seated memories of each of them live on. We know they are everywhere now, pure energy, unencumbered by incarnation. And the very dust of them floats on the wind.

Memory is as real to our minds as the input from our senses. So the beloved will always be right here, a part of us all, and every so often a warm gust from the heart and a catch in our voice will remind us.