Hardly Ever an Unkind Word

At the time I didn't know who she was - an old woman bundled up in a heavy coat, sitting on a blanket in a neighborhood park on a cold mid-November day, listening to music.  I was up and moving partly to capture the faces in the crowd, partly to keep warm and it was her face that drew me - her life was written on it and she'd clearly done some hard traveling - the deeply etched lines and wrinkles and the small signs of skin cancer gave it away.  When I pointed my camera at her, she instinctively tilted her head and gave me a hint of a smile, but her eyes flashed as if they were dancing.  I snapped the shutter, having no idea how important this single photo would be be one day, until yesterday when I saw that she'd died.  At 76, she'd earned her rest.

She'd also earned her way.  She'd raised one son and then two grandchildren, all musicians, on something like $800 a month for years, no small thing.  She'd seen her family through all the hard times and heartache, often their only means of transportation to and from various venues.  She'd worked the door, helped carry gear, saw them safely home.  And nobody could've been more encouraging or supportive of their music, even when the music itself strayed outside the lines.  She'd fed and sheltered them through it all with very little thought of herself and hardly ever an unkind word.  She was very good at putting herself in the shoes of another, thought it was important not to judge or criticize, especially if about someone else's dreams.  Death has a way of making us look back, often adding a soft focus to what we see and remember, a small and forgivable bit of editing in most cases but sometimes it isn't necessary - sometimes the memories are all too adequate and need no adornments, no extra kindness.

I can't credit the following quote but I doubt I've ever read truer words.

Grief never ends.
But it changes.
It's a passage, not a place to stay.
Grief is not a sign of weakness nor a lack of faith.
It's the price of love.