Stubborn Gladness Part 2

More musings on early deaths

Yesterday afternoon, while out for a walk, I came across a lovely older couple sitting on a park bench.

We did a friendly wave and nod, then I wiggled past, “nonlinearly moving” to whatever song I had on at the time.

But then I stopped. I pulled out my headphones and backtracked five steps before saying, “Excuse me, but would you like me to take your picture? You look so peaceful and happy and I thought this might be a memory you’d like to have.”

They joked around a bit, questioning my eyesight if I perceived them as peaceful, but then the gentleman handed over his phone. The wife scooched in a little closer to her beloved and I took two pictures before handing back the phone and wishing them a lovely day.

The reason I’m writing about it is because of what went through my mind as I walked away.

Want to know what it was?

“I hope they use that picture at their funerals.”

Now, I don’t have Glennon Doyle’s gift for saying things in a way that makes you laugh out loud, so I’m going to inform you that I “said” that in a very playful tone.

There was no “yep, these cats are pretty close to being worm food, so obviously this picture is destined for one thing and one thing only: a funeral poster board.”

I have so many more hopes for them. I hope they have another forty Thanksgivings together.

My “I hope they use this picture at their funerals” wish came from being a few weeks out from helping to gather photos for a 35-year-old friend’s funeral.

It came from being a year and a half out from gathering pictures for my 60-year-old dad’s funeral.

It came from having a 22-year-old cousin die in 2021, then a 42-year-old friend, then a 32-year-old former roommate, then a 48-year-old friend from rehab.

I, at the ripe old age of 34,  at seen a lot of early deaths in the last two years. So, when I do things like insist on taking daily walks because they make my heart soar and I’ve come to think that the little moments are what really matter – that’s where the sentiment was coming from.

I hope that, when my park-bench-pals pass away in their sleep at the age of 120, after having radiant health for each and every year of their lives…that someone in their circle sees the picture of them on the park bench and thinks, “this was a moment that mattered.”

This was a moment when two people who had already been married for 40 years chose not to sit in front of the TV griping about the state of the world, but instead drove themselves to the park, sat in front of a verdant green tree, and found peace while they looked at the river flowing by.

This was them feeling connected. Feeling peaceful. Feeling happy to be in each other’s company, enjoying their time on Earth.

I hope they’ve been to Spain and Morocco and seen lions tackle prey at sunrise on an African safari. I hope those photos also make the photo boards.

But really, in my tender and open heart, I hope it’s the park bench photo they look back on with the most fondness.

This was us, living daily life, cherishing each other’s company because we intentionally cultivated moments that made us feel peaceful, grateful and happy. Simple moments where we basked in each other’s presence, flooded with relaxed contentedness.

Or maybe they’ll look back and think, “Ah yes. That was the day at Valley Green when we thought that twitchy girl was going to steal our phone. How lucky that she didn’t.”

But I like the first version better.

Wishing you peaceful moments,

Keely

Original “Stubborn Gladness: Lessons from Five Early Deaths” musing here.