Lauren Lothaire

Last Saturday

A beam of light touched my hand as the sun shifted into mid-morning through the stained glass windows. Somehow surprised by its warmth, I studied my hand for a moment, being woken from the haze of the distant macrocosm I had escaped into. Only to be woken back to this reality. Again I was reminded of the man speaking. Of his too-sharp voice and of how inconsequential his words were to our grief. He droned on with an unworthy remembrance of a life few could compare to in dignity-and not in one of those “don’t speak ill of the dead” kind of ways. Sure, the truth of him was more complicated and despite his constant cheer he had darkness. Passed to him by others who had the misfortune of being touched by some of the worst of humanity. Though unlike the others, he never passed it on. Occasionally it would erupt into a need for action, distraction, dance, noise, laughter-anything other than the silence. But never into harm. He was an infrequent kind of soul. Never stained by the dark, yet still strong enough to carry others out of it and into light. That’s what he did for me. But not even that lasts forever.