Death comes to me again, a girl.

I have been thinking about death and what comes afterward, after losing a friend to suicide. Before, I never really thought about it too much.  The people who had died in my life were older and it seemed natural, even in the midst of my deepest grief I felt that way. When I volunteered for hospice, I felt at peace when the people passed away. Thinking in ambiguous ways, that they were somewhere different and that was okay. 

Spirituality has been a hazy concept on my periphery. I have never felt at home in a church or with organized religion.  I pray, though I don't know to who exactly.  I recently made an appointment with an astrologer and a medium.  I have met with an astrologer before, but the medium idea is totally new.  I was never really interested until now.  I tend to be fairly rational, but a small hopeful part of me is whispering urgently, what if? what if you could talk to your Nana again? what if you could hear that this sweet girl who was in so much pain, is better now?

Her death has made me want to think in different ways about dying and what comes next.  Also, of course, it has made me re-evaluate living a good life and appreciating what I have. I am thinking about what a beautiful life looks like to me, and what I need to do or change to get there. I think I am already well on my way. 

This is one of my favorite poems about death. 

Death Comes to me Again, a Girl

Death comes to me again, a girl
in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling.
It's not so terrible she tells me, 
not like you think, all darkness
and silence. There are windchimes
and the smell of lemons, some days
it rains, but more often the air is dry
and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase 
built from hair and bone and listen 
to the voices of the living. I like it, 
she says, shaking the dust from her hair, 
especially when they fight, and when they sing.