the birth of death

Spring -- a time of birth. Daffodils, tulips and dandelions -- pop-pop-pop. A time of birth and yet not my fave. Autumn seems to warm my heart more. Nevertheless, a time of birth.

And too, the birth of death as it seems.

All around, in the soft airs of spring, hints and examples. They aren't sad, but they seem to have coalesced recently like a pick-up game of tag football: Huddle up!

Last week in my arena, my friend Jonathan's father, Dan, died at 103. Jonathan's wife Rebecca is undergoing chemotherapy for cancer and Jonathan is unsure whether the two of them will ever see Paris again together. On Monday, my stepmother Madeline was readmitted to the hospital with pains in her left chest and arm. She is 92, I think, and her live-with of so many years, Bill, is getting hard of hearing and forgetful and the trip to the hospital unnerved him, according to my half-sister who is doing the heavy lifting. The doctor said Madeline would probably die of a heart attack, but she is back at home now with her rapid heartbeat under comparative control. And then too, my friend Kobutsu is waiting. Waiting. Waiting. And how could all of this be any different from me?

Gently, softly, the rug slips out from under the feet. The birth of death. What are you supposed to do when there is nothing to be done?

The coffee is good.