A Doorway

A doorway. That's how my grandmother Amy used to call death. It was the Tlingit way of thinking. Strange though, my mom who is a christian thinks of it the same way, as a doorway where our true selves pass through in our true form, a being of light and spirit. The stuff of presence alone. What got me thinking about such a morbid thought? Yesterday was the anniversary of the fire which destroyed my family and claimed the lives of my two beautiful daughters Crystal and Amanda. They will be forever 15 and 16. I still remember that night like now. I remember them (the firemen) taking too long. They had lost that sense of urgency you see when something can still be done. I think if I didn't truly believe that we are not our bodies but in our bodies I would go insane. The kind of insanity only a parent could understand. I will never again take for granted a simple breath of cool air . How many breaths would it have taken? You see the insanity thinking like that would lead? All that can be done is not to waste or dishonor the time left that they were denied. And remember that they are no longer limited by the senses of their bodies, but were released from them and can see and feel so much more than I yet. We are caterpillars on a leaf, and one day we will all get our wings. But first you must pass through a door.