“Savor it,” she whispered.
I rubbed my eyes that were heavy with sleep like I was trying to move boulders from the entrance to my mind.
I heard it again.
I knew why she had come, my coy little grandmother with her distinctive southern drawl. I’d had her on my mind.
Too many friends and family have passed through this life over the last several years, most way too soon, too fast, not really enough time to say hello, much less good bye. And it has made me think about this life and what it is to be alive.
And her image comes to me again and again because my memories of her are sensory: the sound of her voice, high pitched and deeply “suthun”; the smell of her Blue Grass cologne; the velvety feel of her soft cheeks; her fingers rubbing the ridges of a cantaloupe as she picks it up to smell if it’s sweet enough to nourish her family; her tush in the air as she bends over to examine the colors, the textures, the patterns of river rocks or sea shells.
I don’t know what waits patiently for me on the other side of this life, but I know it’s not physical or sensual. I choose a life, not of transcendence of this physical realm, but of full engagement, believing that this is the way to honor each moment. To engage with each person, with each experience is to make each moment holy and real. Aware of the day dreams and plans that pull me away, I try to remember again and again, Come back. Come back and savor it.