The last time I saw Essie was two days ago, her fingers were a deep blue, a fly buzzed around her head and she didn't move to swat it. She lay on her back and the breaths were so far apart I continually wondered if there would be another. I spoke loudly to her, and touched her, and those eyes opened and for a long time she looked at me, and I looked at her. Eventually the lids fell again. I knew it was the last look. At four o clock this morning she died.
I wish Essie were alive to sit with, be with, talk with, but because she was so old her going is very natural. I wonder where she is now, what she is experiencing, who she is with.
There are people whose every word is worth hearing. Each sentence comes from a very deep place. Essie was a beautiful crystal among the pebbles.
