Moving On

It was to be the last afternoon of her life. She sensed it... as she had once sensed new life in her body at the conception of her daughter. It was, as a Native American Chief once said, 'A good day to die'.
Outside her window, a baby tit negotiated the wires of a bird feeder, slipping through the cage to stab energetically at the peanuts within.
The tiny bird's life felt like a great pulsing force. On the sill, yellow tulips, dazzling in the sunshine, lifted her momentarily free of her pain. The laughter from her grandchildren in the garden below, came waving at her like bright bunting, fluttering in the wind.
Her mind roamed over old forgotten moments of her life as they pulsated on some inner screen:a kaleidoscope of faces, situations, images rousing her emotions as she became voyeur to the movie of her own life
From a distance she watched the play between her mother, herself, her daughter...memories of her daughter's birth (the pain coming in waves,...like now... bloody tsunamis... taking no prisoners) her mother nursing her through a childhood fever; her mother's death, her daughter bringing forth her grand children. She surfed upon the richness and wonder of it all, enjoying it like a good book.
She resisted the pull dragging her back to consciousness...to pain.
Far away, light years away, the touch of her daughter's hand, a stricken voice speaking final words of farewell and love.
Close by, in the world of her youth she felt her mother's hand enfold her own.
Her eyes opened suddenly of themselves and met with her daughters.
At birth, a baby's first unblinking gaze meets its mother's with a look so deep, so soulful that time itself disappears. Now, as then, it appeared there was only one being looking at itself...until... a fading ..a retreating... a severing of the moment and time moved on. In the final letting go, she felt herself break wide open.
Outside, in the late afternoon sunshine, a tit on the feeder took off into the blue.