Brave soul

I was the last to stand up.

There was an ancient culture that upon hearing the news of a family member's passing, their children should kneel when they enter the house. It means that the heart is so broken that one could barely stand. It was the picture of grief in its crudest form. I was only 11 when I first had a family member die. I didn't know what was going on. I didn't have enough time to work out the meaning of forever. Of leaving and never coming back. But a decade more had elapsed from then. My first graduate 'job' was caregiving. Although it was only for a month. I experienced in such closeness, the deteriorating of life. Of old age, and wasting away, of someone I have known my entire life. She never asked for much. She had a simple life. Laughing comes easily. Grudges stayed forever, unless you're family. On her last day, she'd decided. She'd made her final choice. Quietly, steadily, in all calmness. She laid perfectly still. Knees failed my father that evening. At this point it wasn't tradition doing the grieving. We scrambled into her room, and fell to our knees. So many things we wanted to say. So many memories, a life well lived. A quiet life, just how she'd wanted it. And that day, she'd decided her end. She had a brave soul. She was never afraid. And so we knelt, the four of us, until her final breath. She needn't say a word. Because we all knew her well. How could I have taken her for granted. All the times she smiled. Alas, to die is to have lived, and to grieve is to have loved. It was more than reverence, more than respect, that I was the last to stand up.