My cousin, Michael, is gone. But in the week that he lingered, during which those of us still living said our good-byes, each in our own way, a little seed was planted.
A woman, so often embittered by her conflicted relationship with her daughter-in-law, found common space to occupy, as both women sorrowed and suffered together. They had both lost a love.
A daughter of sorts became a daughter without question as she came forth to trade doubt for adoration, dismissal for devotion. When there is time to grieve, the time for distance expires.
A sister brought to learn the tapestry of a life woven despite her absence recognized threads bearing the scent and color of her early days. So, too, she was connected.
A family disregarded wandered instinctively toward its members, reaching out to touch and hold and share, finding that no matter the differences, the sameness matters more.
Michael, despite his unique, awkward and charmless life, left behind a treasure of grace and gentility which if nurtured and tended may bloom long after these days of pain and grey. In fact, his departure ushers in the bright light of a new day filled with possibilities and potential. There is life. There is hope.
So then, it is true.