I glanced at my fridge to a note that used to be posted on my dad’s fridge. It says: “it’s the singer, not the song,” and I wondered if he really got to sing all that he wanted…it crushes me to think how he was trapped in his body and couldn’t say a word. How I know there was so much more he wanted to do and couldn’t. I wish we could have gotten him back home…if so, would he have died peacefully like Rufus (his dear four legged friend)? Doing all he wanted to do?
I know he hated the nursing home life and when he could speak begged me to bust him out of there…it broke my heart to leave him there because I knew how much he loved his recluse home life. Life, and consequently death, is so cruel sometimes!
(I wrote this poem two days ago…it’s a little morbid…but it sure got me thinking how important it is to get your song out before you can sing the notes anymore.) ~Namaste my friends, and may your loved ones rest in peace as well.
The songbird lay lifeless before my feet.
Its neck broken.
Its body still.
Its voice silenced.
No more songs to come.
The world lost a bit of its sweetness
When your spirit fled.
Did you sing all your songs dear bird?
Did you sing every note you possibly could?
Or did some song remain stuck in your pretty little head;
And instead, you died of a broken heart because you
Could not get it out?
Alas my heart aches for you…for I am afraid to know…