Time, Time Again

We were sad, but not surprised, to learn of Melody's passing.

The arc of her decline was plain to see, one year to the next, even as she continued tending to the health of others. 

She was a nurse, a long-term care provider, and a smoker. As a patient she'd have been lucky to have someone like her taking care of her.

But there was a disconnect somewhere between the patient and the caring clinician.

Melody also managed a little beach house that we were lucky enough to stay at several times. You could tell she cared about that, too. Ahead of every visit we'd text her to see if there was an opening for the time we had available. She'd reply almost immediately, and arrangements would be made.

She would show up not long after we arrived to make sure we had what we needed, and told us to call if we thought of anything else. Did she say the same thing to every other guest who came to the house? I have no doubt about it.

A year or two before covid, we began exploring a different island, and a gap opened up between our visits. In a blink four and a half years went by, and in that time Melody reached the end of her journey.

***

There was work being done on the house when we walked up to it last week. New windows, doors, decking, siding—what you'd expect for a house right on the beach on the windward side of an island in the middle of an ocean.

The owner's son-in-law came out to greet the strangers gawking from the edge of the property. "Can I help you?" he said, not unkindly. We responded with a deluge of words about the times we spent at the house, the wonderful memories, and our hope to stay there again sometime.

Then we asked about Melody.

***

There's been so much change and death and dissonance in the past two and a half years. Even the things that are the same are no longer the same. We know this and have come to expect it—so, the news about Melody shouldn't have come as a surprise at all. And yet it was still a gut punch.

We were hoping, I suppose, for the tiniest bit of stability in this new and dislocated world. Or maybe we're just trying to grab onto the runaway freight train of time as it roars past us.

The desire to stay there, amidst the seagrass in front of that house, was powerful. The thread between "then" and "now" stretched thinner and thinner as we walked away, like the last glint of light at sunset. 

Sitting here tonight, though, I can still feel it. Delicate, ethereal—but unbroken.

***

Mahalo, Melody, and bon voyage. Sending you kind aloha for your walk on the beach