That I have lived on this earth. That I have stood out in the black night, in the sky that comes all the way down to the grass, the wet grass. That my face has lifted to the stars, the fireflies. I have heard the owl in the dark woods. I have smelled the green and sweet air, with my whole body I have smelled and heard and touched.
I have ridden a truly wonderful roller coaster. I have loved. I have had just the best time. It is that I have lived, really lived, and been lucky lucky, so lucky. I have not missed the thing we were born for.
We have not missed that many-splendored thing.
When I was a girl, one of the movies (and books) I loved ended with this line: “We have not missed, you and I. We have not missed that many-splendored thing.” Already I have not missed it. All the rest is gravy, all the rest of whatever I get. I am not greedy for more, but glad of it, yes, if there is to be more.
* * *
What a thing, to be physical. I have no idea if there is anything else, another sort of life, another way to be. I’ll know about that when the time comes (if it does). I can’t be bothered with it now, with wondering about it. I have this! this here. If I were thinking about that, about the possibility of life beyond this one, I would be missing what’s in front of my face, my now, what my hands are on, or could be, if I weren’t escaped into my mind.
I would be missing the sweet face of my dog Casey, who is alive. Give me this dog, my fingers deep in her black fur that smells of old dog. I will not subject her to water, the kind that makes contact with her luscious coat. She hates getting wet. If she comes in from a necessary trip out into the rain (for her toilet is out there where the water is falling), when this happens, I drape a towel around her dear body and buff her. This is so good (she would say) that it almost makes it worth the misery of the rain.
I live in paradise. When do I ever walk out the door onto the porch that I fail to notice this? When does the world out there not take me into its arms, sweep me up in its smells, the shape of its terrain, its tall and green trees? How could I miss it?
I sit on the couch there, and the old dog works her way up onto her place beside me. Sighs into my leg. We are happy here. We are together.
* * *
It is that I had this, with her; that I got to sing Beethoven’s 9th several times in my life, and the Faure Requiem. That I had more than one passionate love affair, and had my heart broken too, more than once.
I feel done with that now, with that kind of loving. I had enough. It was good. I’m full, and happy to be empty. It all came and went. Life did that. Life still does that. I’m still here.
* * *
You’re still here, or you wouldn’t be reading this.
We won’t be, though. In a hundred years it will be all new people. It all just keeps going.
Live, my friend. Not for the future, not “so that.” ‘Cause it’s the only now you’ve got.
This was written 13 years ago, when Casey was quite old but still alive. I came upon it the other day. I’m 13 years older than I was then. Casey is a box of ash. In my heart, she lives to this day.