Golondrina has been struggling with her growing awareness of mortality. My mortality, to be precise. She is full of foreboding, warning me on almost every night that she has a “bad feeling that something is going to happen” to me. She told me once that she hopes she will die right after I do, because no one will hug her tight, in quite the way I do, after I die. I hugged her tight when she said that.
I also asked her to go inside herself and discover what Truth lies there. But I know this is the fear that blinds, and that my own, adult access to Truth is often obscured.
I tried to speak to Golondrina of my understanding of death as transformation. I told her again of my experience accompanying my Oma in her crossing: the weak, but chaotic energy before, and also the peace of it, after. Golondrina spoke to her own Grandma, who got started on that journey and then turned back.
But none of that matters to Golondrina, of course. She is concerned only with this physical form.
And I can make her no promises that change will stop its relentless course.
The only comfort I can give her is to hug her tight and whisper in her ear, “It’s a good thing I can hold you now!”
She smiles — wanly, but she smiles— and turns to go back to her bed.