"There is a friend who has lost his daughter. She was
fifteen. In the afternoon, in the quiet of his study, (where have all the terribly
comforting noises and effort of care-giving gone? The rustle of plastic when
opening a new syringe wrapper. The pop of a medicine container, the cling of
stirring that medicine in a glass. The distrust in life, the pride at her
commitment to renew herself each day) he broke down in tears. How could he live
his life, doing justice to all the sacrifices, to honor her short but exquisite
life? How could he go on without the meaning that caring for her brought? He
realized then, that her sacrifices were not in vain, since she lived a
beautiful life. A very difficult one, but filled with laughter, drama and the
mundane. Like any other. ‘God I loved her’, he thought. But then the obvious
struck him, that he loves her and carries not only those experiences
inside of him, but her essence. Yes, she is gone, but her meaning isn’t. His
very bones breathe her existence. Despite the appearance of limitation and
suffering, he chooses the positive in life, because that’s how they lived it.
His life, his intention, his meaning."
excerpt from 'Before the god of the fields', an upcoming novel.
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