On death

Our beloved fish, Lil Jackie Sparrow, died yesterday. I was on the phone with Blake when he got home and found Jackie on the floor next to his bowl. His water wasn't any higher than normal, and we've never seen him splash around really or jump out of the water. We don't know how this happened. The worst part was that I was still on the phone to hear the flush of his burial. We both cried a little. We shared our favorite memories of Lil Jackie and assured ourselves that he knew that we loved him. One of my favorite memories is that when our niece watched him while we were out of town she read him bedtime stories so he could go to sleep.

I realize that there is a strongly comedic element in all of this, but I'm seriously sad about it right now. I think it's the first little realization that "we" are vulnerable. Lil Jackie was from our wedding reception. We made him a part of our family; he even came on the family vacation in Vegas last weekend. He was a part of the playful, fantasy world that Blake and I live in, and now he's gone. Our world is vulnerable.

I lay in bed last night thinking about death, trying to come to grips with the idea that one day death will separate us. Hopefully that day is a long, long way away, but it will be just that: a day. One day. Death isn't something that happens gradually, even in the case of the terminally ill. It isn't something you mark on your calendar and prepare for the same way you prepare for your wedding. It just happens one day. One day. One moment. Your loved one is here with you, and one day he/she is gone. I can really only begin to imagine how devastating that day will be. Please, God, that is one day I don't want to live to see.