Morbid, but not so much

I'm thinking a lot about death today.

Cheerful, isn't it?

But perfectly reasonable, considering.

Evil Knievel died last week, and his appropriately over-the-top, jam-packed, star-studded funeral is taking place in about ten minutes, here in my little Montana town. He was born and raised here, and was proud of it. Though they acknowledge his bad points, people here are proud of him too. It's definitely more of a celebration than a solemn occasion--we went to see the red, white, and blue Evel memorial fireworks last night. {s}

In counterpoint, my next-door neighbor passed away unexpectedly this weekend. Hubby and I heard the sirens at a quarter to midnight and watched, shivering, from the window as he was wheeled out on a stretcher, a paramedic straddling him, pushing on his chest. As the ambulance sat in the driveway while they continued to work on him. As the mother and son stared, blankly, as the 14-year-old daughter cried quietly in the car. The ambulance eventually drove away, the cars following, but it was pretty clear what had happened. Hubby and I couldn't sleep, of course--we curled up together on the sofa and watched a late-night movie. Ever since I have been almost constantly aware of their sadness, but at the same time fiercely joyful and grateful for my own family, for being alive today. For having love.

I wrote out Christmas cards to my friends yesterday, and am hiding a little in my office today. I just want to be alone, to think at peace. (and I want to write, at lunch. More on that tomorrow)