A fragile gift

It doesn't seem fair that the weather is so perfect here in Oregon while the rest of the nation suffers. That I pick wild strawberries in my backyard while people go hungry in places far away. That I listen to John play Chopin-haltingly, beautifully, and full of hope, while for others now is a time of  despair.

The litany of things that have gone terribly wrong around here over the past month:

1. An awful car accident, occurring far from a hospital, and resulting in critical back injuries to a young friend.

2. Tumultuous break-ups of people I love.

3. Serious forms of cancer for 4 friends and family members.

4. And then this, a horror that I can't even bring myself to say, that happened last week to a colleague's family.

There is a park bench on a nearby hilltop. Dedicated to the memory of a lost infant, it bears a simple inscription :

Each day is a fragile gift.

And so that is the thing to keep closely in mind.

My little camera, my hands, John's photo

And perhaps this, too, which says the same thing in different words:

“The man walked past me and stopped, observing the blood running down my neck.

"Your injury. Let us tend to it." He looked out through the open doorway and silently gestured to someone out there. "Our world," he said, "is far more advanced than yours. For reasons you'll understand shortly."

A thin, bony, naked woman entered the room, carrying two small, white kittens. She sat one of the fluffy cats in my lap and stuffed the other down my shirt. She turned and left.

"There," said the large man. "The kittens will make your sad go away.”
― David Wong, John Dies at the End