on death and grieving

Been reading a lot of Kahlil Gibran

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?
And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

My Grandma is dying, has been for 92 years I suppose, but mostly these last few days, weeks, months and years.  Most nights this week I heard her breathing and thought how easily each breath could be the last. 

But my heart cries more easily for a friend.  A friend I write to regularly and never send anything... because each word casually morphs into a stab conceived from deep within my hurting.
I was looking at pictures tonight. I have no pictures of my grandma, but the photo albums on my shelves and pictures on my wall have my friend on each page. A hundred looks, smiles, laughter, insights, nights when life felt great because in our suffering we weren't alone, and nights when life felt greater because in our joy... 
I shared my humanity with this friend, like no other friend, yet now each of us feels betrayed. 
 and I can't find in my heart the strength to start over, to forgive, or even to be vulnerable and it hurts me more, because I know I am trying to stay strong so I don't just fall over and fail...so I don't get eaten alive, don't submit to manipulation and abuse, stay aware and responsible,    but to be strong is to be open, 
and I am failing all the same. 

and it brings up all my other failures, the pictures in the book. The lost friends, or the ones I am too hard to let in. Each picture a joy in my heart, and a stab also. and another stab because tomorrow I will remember the pain and not the joy as I struggle through how to make life just a little more sane.
 I once thought I could be everything to everyone, and now wonder if I can be anything at all, or if my purpose will be to casually whittle myself away, like the flesh on my Grandma's arms, like her sunken cheeks, like her hollow eyes, and vacant breaths.

My mother brought up her brilliance tonight, an insight from my friend, that allowed her to connect with my grandma these past few months even through the dementia.  An insight from a friend of mine she barely knew, and here she is on my grandma's death bed telling the nurse, of a gift, from my friend who I can't even talk to, because every time I want to make peace I end up tasting bile and grinding my teeth.

and each time I look at my grandma's open mouth, dry lips, dark and fragile hands, her boney arms leading back to such tiny breakable frame, I wonder who would hold my hand as I slip away, battered and bruised, broken and tormented, would anyone cry or would they like I, whisper wishes of quick goodbyes under their breath when no one is looking...  and if it were my friend, would I ever forgive myself for this time wasted? 

and the answer is of course no, but through tears I still cant taste forgiveness.

from peoples' mouths I have heard deeply meant affirmations of my character, but most days I can't tell if my optimism is based on an expanding worldview, or a diminished one. 

My grandma has become blind, but this week she saw paintings, sculptures and visions. She described them and I couldn't comprehend their beauty. 
She didn't know me this week, but she never really knew me.  
As I approached she asked me if she had offended me, and I wondered if she meant it.
If in my fear I had given her cause to believe that she had hurt me.
and I assured her no, but I wonder if I meant it.

Sometimes I go over the records of my relationships, to find some valid substantial reason for the great surging depths of my feelings, and sometimes I find it, and it leaves me even more humbled, feeling more blessed, and sometimes more lost than ever.