David McElroy

There’s nothing in the world which teaches me to appreciate life quite the way death does.

When I was young, death seemed so far off for me that it didn’t seem real. Although I have a vivid memory of seeing the body of a man who had just been killed when I was about 10, that didn’t seem like something that could happen to me. It was only years later that I really found meaning in that.

I was one of the lucky ones who never had anybody in his life die other than the people we expect. My mother’s father died when I was about 5. I remember going to the funeral home and touching his cold body, but death didn’t seem surprising with an older person. All the other deaths I saw in the coming years were older people who were related to me. Not a one seemed surprising or “too soon.”

Some people experience a rough early introduction to death — especially those who unexpectedly lose a parent, a sibling or a close friend — but for me, death was almost an abstract concept.

Until the last few years. Death seems very real to me now.

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There are moments when I love my life so much that the joy is almost painfully overwhelming.

These moments happen every day. They’re the moments when I’m in love with the world and with the beauty all around me — and more than anything else, with the people and things which I’ve chosen to love.

Tuesday evening, Lucy rode with me to get gasoline for the car. She loves her little car trips and she seems to be happy to be close to me. The photo above is her sitting in my seat while I was outside filling the car‘s tank.

As we headed back home, Lucy put her head on my right shoulder and nuzzled my neck. She was happy and wanted to be close. As I reached my right hand up to rub the fur of her head, I felt filled with love for her — and love for the joy of this moment of being with her.

It’s those shared moments of love and gratitude and pure joy which I most miss about having the love of a partner in my life.

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There’s no moon out here tonight. It seems almost pitch black — and that feels appropriate.

Because of the street lights and porch lights of my quiet suburban street, the sky looks totally dark from my front porch. I know there are no clouds tonight, though, so the stars have to be there.

The glow of all these dim ambient lights covers up the pinpricks which represent a million burning infernos of light and heat in the distance.

But the light and heat of those stars seem impossibly far away right now. As much as I wish I could feel the heat and see the light, my heart feels the cold distance and knows that it reflects the emptiness of my heart — and the distance between my cold heart and warm love.

I touched real love a little while ago. Just for a moment. It was an accident. But I touched it for a moment — and it was warm and bright and colorful — yet it was just an illusion that I could not hold onto.

But that brief touch has me looking for light and warmth as I sit alone in the darkness after midnight.

My heart needs to know where love is now.

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