On Teaching Our Children the Art of Dying: A Guest Post by Emily Wierenga

{She's been here before, the lovely Emily and her perfectly Imperfect Prose...but really, can one ever get enough of Emily?}

we walk, and we remember: trent's papa, the man who did magic tricks and made gun powder in his kitchen and ate fried chicken every sunday, we remember his life and the lives of the saints, here in the snow. flags placed by the stones of the veterans, souls dug deep and we walk where they rest, their bodies holding up the world.

my sons' cheeks all rose and round, flesh brand-new and trent and i, finding crow's feet and the slowing of step as we pull blue sled in the quiet. "he left so peacefully," auntie marg told me on the phone, uncle jim passing after years of suffering, and she cries, this snow-haired lady from pine creek, and she misses him she says, but he's with God now. and jim spent his whole life preparing for the day he would die. the day he would meet his maker. a leaf, falling, orange edge curling and impressing the snow and there's beauty in the drifting down: in the tree losing color. and age is the wind that blows us gently to God's doorstep.

we unfurl hats, mitts, scarves and cling to each other by the wood-stove and the art of dying is in knowing how to live. in knowing how to let go of the branch, in drifting down and letting the wind blow us... while others marvel at our color, and remember.

{Thank you, Emily friend.}