Moving On

My Godfather was buried today. My Godmother, a depressed and demented shell of her former self ,watched him sink beneath the ground. Their son, my only near-cousin in life, grew into his own in choreographing our respects to his father, fiancee by his side. Of course, none of this was about my Godfather. All of it was about us, standing around his grave, shivering in the cold, snowy February Saturday. For he was not cold, now that blood no longer runs through his veins. Us, watching them grieve, wondering what they are experiencing, and what we will experience when we next find ourselves in their painful situation. For he was not wondering, the synapses in his brain no longer fire. Us, living and breathing the Holy Spirit of community. For he is no longer a part of that living, breathing community. Us, wondering about he, who no longer wonders. None of us really know what he is now. If he is living on in spirit, and is omniscient, he probably has lost his wonder. I want to wonder more, while I can, but not about death.