What if, even as we die,
we find that this time of advent,
of waiting, this in between
here and gone, is not
to be feared?

That each slowing exhale,
breath to breath to breath,
is a kind of bardo, the liminal state
between death and rebirth,
an outstretched hand between
generations, offering us a chance
to dance in this sacred moment.

That rather than resisting
this moment of finite existence,
we unfold with each exhale,
feel our joints loosen, too,
as hers let go.

That, of course, the unknown
end date to a lifetime is what
makes each one precious.

That this is an awakening,
this space of uncertainty,
that witnessing this undoing
is a portal into understanding.
That we are meant to be here
for this passage. That this
transition is an awakening,
for her, for us.

That as we orbit her dying star,
loosely tethered by DNA
and gravitational pull through
these long nights, all we can do
is hold each other with kindness.

That, even now—
in this moment-to-moment practice
of in-breath and out,
of opening and releasing,
of holding joy and sorrow in our arms—
we move through this graceful dance
into mystery.

As we return to presence.
As we return.