A Strong Voice

[purplerabbit]

Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had, they are sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had, they would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot that I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call good night and joy be with you all
-- from The Parting Glass sung by Leigh Ann Hussey (Anarchy & Rapture, Annwn)

So I sat in the night with a love beside me, listening to her voice and her fiddle. Breathing deep the joy at having known her. Not well, certainly not well enough, but long. I have known her half my life. I was but an Okie new to California when first we met. Truth be told, she intimidated me even then. Only a year and a half older but seeming so much bolder. I sat in the night as memories filtered through, some long forgotten. One recent, meeting in the halls at Pantheacon. A brief meeting with a promise to catch up more "later."

I slept late and woke groggy with no memory as a friend dropped by to visit. She thanked me for the poem of last night. And it came flooding back. Oh, yeah, it wasn't a dream. She is really dead. Really and truly gone. No later now.

Bigger than life. Yeah. So much life, so much energy and strength. Does it seem odd that someone like that could die? Could die quickly and simply on a beautiful May day? Thirty-one years ago, May 31, 1975 was just such a beautiful May day. My dad rode away on his motorcycle. He promised me a ride, "later." I've never sat astride a bike since. Not just out of fear. I made a vow that night to my grieving mother that as long as she lived, I would never ride a motorcycle.

I can't but wonder sometimes at what my own death will be like? Will it be quick? Will I know before? Or will be sudden, leaving so much unfinished? So much unsaid. So much not written. So much not done. I would wish that I could live a long full life. My sunlight child wants me to live to be at least 99 before I die. If that is possible, then I am less than halfway there. But such should have been true of them. My dad only 36, Leigh Ann only 46.

Holding a dear friend and crying for another loss. It makes me wonder. Is there words left unspoken between you and I? If I died tomorrow, what would you regret not having said?

Comments

[pure-agnostic.livejournal.com]

I only met her a couple of times, but I too am saddened by her death.