When you were first admitted to the hospital, we talked most of the night away.  There were so many tests being done: middle of the night ultrasounds and CT’s and blood work hourly, so no sleep for the weary.  You were feeling restless, and I hoped that a guided meditation might help settle you, so we began.  Together, we took a trip in our minds.  I talked you through it, guiding you to a place in nature where you felt safe and happy.  I asked you to look around and take it all in, to think about what the sky looked like and what you could see off in the distance.  In my mind, you were probably in Big Sur, looking at the Pacific.  This went on for 10 minutes or so.  When it was over I asked you if you had enjoyed the trip.  You answered without hesitation that you had. You said “I’ve always loved New York.”

We’re only just beginning to learn how to live our lives without you.  It will no doubt be a life-long lesson.  So far the only thing that I’m sure of is that life is fleeting, ephemeral. We need to make the most out of the time given us, live our lives as I think you did, full out and in the present moment.  That’s my goal, but I have such a long way to go.

I welcome the day when I can look at pictures of you and not feel gutted, or when I can share stories about you and at some point, inevitably, smile and say, “That’s just so typically Mason.”   And what’s funny about that is, there is nothing typical about you.   You are a laundry list of equal and opposite characteristics that somehow co-exist peacefully and manifest as your unique being.  You are impossible to quantify.  You are Mason.

It has been 3 weeks.

“What is there to do when people die–people so dear and rare–but bring them back by remembering.” – May Sarton