Two birds.

I watched them fly until I could no longer see them.

I drove out to Ranchita Thursday morning. A long meandering open road is the last stretch of the 90 minute drive.

Rolling hills as far as the eye can see. The brown grasses just starting to turn surprisingly green as we’ve had very little rain. The sky a calming blue with soft white clouds floating by.

Falling Slowly was playing on the radio and I looked up to see two birds, flying side by side, moving through the air like they had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there. I watched their duet until I could no longer see them.

Yesterday I got the text.

She had passed in the night. She was 22. I met her when I started dropping baskets at the hospital where I was treated for those newly diagnosed. She was scared, far too young to be managing a diagnosis I could barely manage in my 50s.

I walked into her room not knowing what to expect. She got up from the bed, walked toward me, wrapped her arms around me and sobbed. I cried as I held her.

We became friends. We texted, we met for coffee, I visited her in the hospital. In less than a year I came to love and adore her wholly.

Her short life over before she ever got to find out who she was going to become. That is a particular kind of grief I don’t have words for.

I spent yesterday morning crying, last night too. Shaking my fists at the sky.

The tears keep coming as I write this. My heart is broken. Her loss is a shattering reminder of how fragile this life is. How unfair.

This morning as I was journaling my sadness, the birds were singing loudly outside my window. I paused, put my pen down and listened. I thought of Thursday. That long open road, the blue sky, the two birds flying side by side until I could no longer see them.

Somewhere, just beyond the horizon, they’re still out there. Still flying.

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I’ll see you next Sunday in your inbox. Wishing you all a week of extra savoring.

With love,
Stefanie