Departures

i.

Hiking alone, I venture out onto the creek’s rocky outcrops. The water rushes beneath the rocks, beneath my feet, as the birds air their murmurings. The late-Spring breeze twists around my legs, raises goosebumps on my arms.

Half a dozen swallowtails dance above the creek’s surface, then part and return, flying past me as they go. As they get closer, I follow them to where the rocks end. They gather and gather, just beyond me.

I creep closer, curious.

All but two depart.

Transfixed, I venture closer and still closer, careful not to lose my footing, hoping to not scare them away so they’ll stay just long enough to get a picture.

And then I see.

Then I see it.

ii.

By now I should be used to departures,
having made so many of my own and observed so many others.

Divorce.

Death.

Divorce.

Move after
move after
move.*

But now the departures
are coming
in
rapid
succession.

One’s leaving.
Another’s leaving.
One sees the end lurking, a blurred shadow in the distance.
Another nearly hastened their own.
One’s hoping to hold death at bay for just a few moments longer.
Another I stepped away from years ago shares a new loss to grieve.

So many chapters coming to a close, complete, but somehow still unwritten.

iii.

The swallowtails alight upon the carcass of a small mammal. An opossum, by the looks of it, though I’m no expert. Its skull is partially-exposed, tapering to a point where its whiskers persist. Bits of rib cage jut from its back. Sticks of bone emerge from its fur where its legs must have been. Legs that may have carried it here before it died.

The butterflies rest atop tufts of matted fur as carrion beetles carry on with their work.

iv.

I don’t notice the carcass at first, distracted as I am by my careful attempts to capture the butterflies with my cell phone camera.

When I do, I am more surprised than repulsed.

Of all the places they could land and stay, what draws them to this one?

After all, I don’t typically think of butterflies as decomposers.** The carrion beetles–far more well known for being saprophagous–are a more expected sight.

The two swallowtails. Cropped for the squeamish.

Still, this juxtaposition of beauty and decay is oddly comforting to me.

Death and rebirth intertwined.
Endings and beginnings.

v.

I pause to take it all in, but choose not to linger for long. As the morning makes its way into the afternoon, the trail nearby is becoming more peopled.

Do I really want to be “that strange woman” families stumble across as she snaps pictures of a dead opossum?

vi.

I have so much to say–

to those who are leaving,
to those who are afraid they might be leaving too soon,
to those who share in a loss of that which is already gone

–but it feels like too much.

I don’t want to be too much.

vii.

I spend hours looping through the trails alone, not stopping until I know that I am done. That I have let the earth reclaim what I have been grasping too tightly–at least for a time. At least until the peace fades and I forget myself and pick it all back up again.

ix.

I wrestle, still, with the impulse to say something more. To pour out my thoughts as a send-off.

Of all the things I want to say, the not-saying does not make things remain as they are. And the saying does not serve to hasten the journey onward.

I wrestle with the paradox of the some of the words feeling too personal to share so personally. So, I will put the too-personal words out into the world, that they may be gleaned quietly from where they rest by those for whom they are meant and also by those for whom they were not meant, but for whom they may resonate nonetheless.

x.

Take heart. Those pieces of your past that haunt you, let them be stripped to the sinew; let them return to the soil, that you may dance on the grave of your pain. Let the love which remains nourish you as you move into the unexpected. And may we, on the outside looking in, find peace in that which brings you peace, without condition. I love you. Always.

xi.

I have wrestled more than I care to admit with the timing of greetings and departings. Hellos and goodbyes. But the universe prevails, as it always does. I accept the unknowing with gratitude and trust. Our hands are only full when we loosen our grasp, so I let go of my wrestlings, my graspings. I wish you a future full of promise nourished by gleaning from your past that which serves you and by letting go of that which is no longer needed, so that your arms may be free to fully embrace the journey that lies ahead. I am grateful that our paths crossed. May I let go of trying to read ahead to see what’s next.

xii.

I wish I could distill the peace you gave me and pour it out as an endless transfusion of love and care and strength to you and yours. May you find wisdom in the hanging on and in the letting go. The world is nourished by your presence in it–and we will carry that presence with us–even if your body refuses to cooperate. My heart is with you always, always, always. I carry you in mine, with the deepest gratitude for the gift of knowing you in all your refreshing authenticity. Fuck cancer.

xiii.

I don’t know that it is time yet. Deep down, not yet, not yet. So, I’ll wait and hope that in the waiting, I do not tarry too long in the telling. I am grateful for your sweet, soulful spirit. Don’t be afraid to let go and let others fill your cup. You are more than worthy.

xiv.

And for you, my dear reader, to take if you need it:

Allow yourself to feel–whatever it is may seem impossible to endure–it may appear utterly interminable–but a beetle does not devour a whole carcass in one sitting. Neither should you.

Be gentle with yourself.

You are loved.

kfw 2021

*(Three years in my current home ties for second place for the longest I’ve gone without moving since I was 16. Over the last 28+ years, the longest I’ve stayed in any one home is just shy of five years.)

**”The eastern tiger swallowtail, Papilio glaucus, is probably the most polyphagous of all 560+ species of swallowtail butterflies in the world.” (This includes “feeding on… carrion.”)