Vigil in April

We stayed up all night with you. I thought I’d be afraid to wash your cold skin, but I wasn’t. The warm water smelled like lavender and childhood. To care for you wasn’t a dreaded chore, it was a blessing. And one of our friends brought an apple cake with white icing.

We took turns reading your favorite books to you aloud, every line save for your handwriting in the margins. This we read only to ourselves. It ached as your precious words burrowed in my chest, but in my heart, they planted a song. The song wandered in the conversations of our friends and family around us in the room, changing form and melody, like a river swirling around stones. This was the song we heard in ourselves. We hoped you could hear it, too. To make a mournful noise seemed horribly out of place.

The next day, as loved ones came and went, the sunshine streamed down the hallway through the front door. Someone set a crystal vase of fresh tulips on your nightstand. The clock struck 8 a.m. You had a smile on your lips then, and that was the gift for which I am most grateful.