Bright spots in dark days

I walk into the hospital room and I don't know what to say. Where do I look? and what should I say that hasn't been heard before? My cousin Maria says that the previous visitors started singing hymns and hallelujahs, annoying the people in the next beds. We both smile at the image. Aunty May has a bruise on her hand where the intern couldn't put the needle in.

My Great Aunty May is very sick and she doesn't have very long to go. And I worry. I worry because I don't know how to deal with death, I'm even less well equipped to deal with the aftermath. I don't want her to die. I don't want her to die and leave my great uncle, who is after sixty years of marriage is clearly struggling to come to terms with it [And where is God when you really need him?]. Of course what I want has nothing to do with anything. Logically, we are prepared for death as an inevitability. But logic exits when it actually happens. We're not built of logic.

When you leave the hospital room, when you leave the hospital and you step outside, all you can do is suck in air. You didn't realise you'd been holding your breath the entire time.

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And so you unknowingly look for bright spots to compensate. An email from overseas. Singing in the car with your girls. Making your mum laugh so hard that she cries.

So you close your eyes, and breathe this weekend in and hopefully when you open your eyes, someone is standing in front of you smiling at you reminding you that life is still moving. And you'd better get going as well.