missing the sun

Here in the window beside my Bay chair is a solar-driven prism that casts rainbow colors of light around the room when the sun shines directly upon. If the sun is not shining on it, even during, as now, the daylight of morning, the prism is still as death and the light is gone. This morning it reminds me of how uniquely alone I felt in life the day after my mother died. That, my first morning of life as an orphan, seven years ago this summer, but returns any moment. Also as the desktop on a now laid aside computer, a picture looking out beyond the Bay, and life, into what we envision as Eternity.

What happens, where do we go, what do we know, what of the love and loves we leave behind us? And is there love waiting for us there, wherever or whatever there might be?

Lillie Pitts Lloyd died yesterday. She was 105 years of age, remarkable until her very last. I expect never to know anyone else like her. Comes to mind this morning Emily's poem

The Bustle in a House

The Morning after Death

Is solemnest of industries

Enacted opon Earth –

The Sweeping up the Heart

And putting Love away

We shall not want to use again

Until Eternity –

T

Emily Dickinson, "The Bustle in a House"