going gentle

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas

On Thursday afternoon, a dear friend slipped into that good night, but gently. He was a mentor while I was in graduate school, and we stayed friends for all these years. Being present when a soul leaves its home is a profoundly moving experience of breathtaking power. He was here. Then he wasn't. But his going was quiet and peaceful. Eighty-five years young. He will be deeply missed.

Then yesterday, when I returned from having a lovely lunch with another dear friend ~ do our friends become more dear to us as we age? ~ only to learn that the funny, rambunctious dog who lived across the street had been bitten by a black widow spider and had died. He was a Cock-a-poo mix named Nemo, so named because he was missing a paw. Here he is, rooting around in his toy basket, looking for a bone.



It has not been a good week for God's creatures, great and small.