Ice melts, beats fade

Inside Ash Cave.  

It's hard to sit here without thinking that I am small and life is fleeting, 

without humbly approaching the idea that I am here now, grateful for that.

When we got home from Hocking Hills, I helped put the boys to bed and ran to the library.  They had far more questions than I had answers and we needed books about icicles and drum groups, stat.
I saw a friend there, one whom I hadn't seen for some time, who used to bring her now nearly seven year old to the same baby games I took Celia to every Thursday morning.  She said, with a smile, You know who I think of every time I come here, don't you?  And I did know.  Because I do, too.  For a moment, echoes of remembrance bounced back and forth between our hearts, her words opening a tiny crack in time through which relief could flow.  I thanked her for resurrecting Celia for a minute with the memory.  I think some people are afraid to mention her, worried they'll inadvertently remind us of her, as if she were something that could ever slip our minds.  Her absence will ripple across years and change our entire lives.  But she will always be the air we breath, the music we hum, and the beauty that helps blind us to anything bitter.