Then and Now

I remember you most in the breath.

What I take for granted each moment, an inhale and an exhale, the
focus of all your energy.

Even now, in yoga, as I draw my attention to my breath, deepening and
lengthening, imagining the opening of each bronchi into bronchioles
into flowering alveoli reaching down into the smallest corner of my
lung, I wonder at the resilience of your body, continuing on with
only half the breath I have.

My most shallow breath your deepest.

The fact of the end of this struggle hits me again, for the
thousandth time. I wonder when it will really be comprehended.

One instant, one breath, and it all changed.

I find a card you sent with some pictures of our ancestors. There is
no date. "Poppy," it reads, "-- a symbol of consolation, rest, and
repose." On the inside, "While others keep you in their hearts,
please keep hope and faith in yours." A sympathy card.

Even now, as I focus on breathing through the tightness of grief, you
console and comfort.

And I remember you most in the breath.