poetry wednesday.
The Dead
The dead are always looking down on us, they say,
while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,
they are looking down through the glass bottom boats of heaven
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.
They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,
and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,
drugged perhaps by the hum of a long afternoon,
they think we are looking back at them,
which makes them lift their oars and fall silent
and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.
-Billy Collins
People I know have died this week, one old and one young, by her own hand. I will attend one funeral today and be present in spirit for another on Friday. The first night of being dead must be the hardest, it is said, and also that first night and always after for the living left behind with questions forever unanswered.
(To celebrate the absolute joyfulness of living, do yourself a little favor this morning and watch this. We all get by with a little help from our friends. Teachers have such passions, both inside and outside the classroom. Thank a teacher today. Be a friend to someone today. It might make all the difference.)
