Let me tell you a story. You do not have to believe it, but listen closely, and you may find some significance.
I am prone to the dark mood of the Irish, not often, but when it descends, it envelopes me in its cloak shutting out all the sunlight, and I become its victim.
September of this year I found myself in its embrace. There were myriad reasons; the anniversary of my beloved's death, the birthday of someone in my circle of love who has taken a leave of absence, and a wedding of a loved one to which I had not been invited.
I seldom weep, but on this day I did retreating to the bedroom where my Anam Cara had spent his last days. The room has been used periodically when I have guests, probably on a monthly basis during the past 60 months.
Bedding is changed weekly by the two wonderful helpers who have handled my household chores for many years. I keep my computer in this room along with a TV set, so it is not an unused portion of my home.
That day as despair took over, and I retreated to the bed with tears flowing down my cheeks, I dropped the eyeglass holder I was carrying. As I stooped to retrieve it, I noticed something lying by the bed.
As I picked it up, I realized it was a man's watch. A watch that seemed to have disappeared shortly after his death. Not an expensive item, but one he wore on a daily basis. Originally we thought it had been either left in the hospital or misplaced when we collected his belongings.
Yet here it was. Impossible to explain, yet somehow incredibly reassuring.
John O'Donohue has said, "The dead are our nearest neighbors."
You may not agree, but I believe he is right.
You decide!
