November, 2013: Into the Light

I've come to believe that in the same way that I have "work friends" and "knitting friends" and "college friends" I also have "loss friends."  They aren't necessarily people I hang out and drink coffee with, but we have connected at some core level through our experiences with loss.  Most of us could use the hashtag #cancersucks to describe moments in our lives.  My sister has a friend (a real friend) who I count among my "loss friends;" after losing one of her sons tragically to cancer (#cancersucks), she has dedicated her life to helping families who are undergoing traumatic experiences with childhood cancers.  Because her son's favorite color was orange, Laurel believes that Myles speaks to her through beautiful orange sunsets.

It's probably a coincidence, but from the time my mother was hospitalized in November, 2011 for intensive chemotherapy, I have been witness to spectacular sunsets.  Many nights while I was making the drive from Albany Medical Center to Amenia, New York, I had to pull over and watch because I was spellbound by the exquisite beauty in the skies.  During that week in November, 2013, the sunrises and sunsets were breathtaking.  From the wide expanse of windows in the hospice ward, each day greeted us with a glorious watercolor of crimsons, fuschias, salmons, corals, burgundies, vermilions, magentas, garnets, apricots, tangerines, peaches, cadmiums, amethysts, pomegranates, periwinkles, lilacs, lavenders, orchids, plums, and violets...as if it were necessary for us to drink up every color in the universe in that one moment.  Nights drifted in reluctantly as the colors blazed and slowly muted into darkness; temporarily sated, we reluctantly let go of the day.  Like Scheherazade, they forced us to stop and just BE in the moment while they danced around us with their stories and promise of just one more day.

In the days After, I have remained particularly sensitive to the comings and goings of each day's show of colors.  We have moved to a new state, where we live at the top of a hill; during many of my drives to and from work or just watching from the many windows of our house in the country, my breath catches as I reflect upon the swirling pools of watercolors.  I like to think that my mother is there with her own parents and sister, who she lost far too young, and with Myles, reminding us to stop to take notice of the world's magnificence.

sunset in our back yard                                                     sunset at Duncan's school