The Art of Dying
He held the finch in his hands in his lap. It had been sitting on a rock outside the hole he had dug that morning to plant a new cat’s whisker. He had stepped away and when he returned she was there. And she was dying. He sat with her and eventually picked her up. If she was going to recover he gave her his energy. If not he gave her his love. She rested in his hands. He moved her to his heart. Her warmth and weight and lightness were all that was left. She now rests among the roots of the cat’s whisker, free to soar.
They had a pact. They would be by each others side when it was time to go. She was in California and cancer was taking her. He was in Florida and when he found out was not able to be there. Her husband called to tell him. She wanted him to know it was time. He strode down to his haven on the coast and sat. As he sent his love and gratitude for their time together and prayed for her peaceful passing a seagull rode on the still waves to shore. She too was passing. He held her in his hands and against his body. He sat in the sand with her and he buried her.
(as told by Lon from his perch overlooking the Kohola coast)