In the beginning, I wrote about the little things. The feel of a breeze. A trail in the grass. A star in the sky. Then one day. I wrote about the big thing. A disease in the brain. The little things went away. It was all about the big thing. Every day. There was no escape. Then the big thing did what it does. It killed her. My wife. And that brought the next big thing. Death. Hard to escape it.

It was a little over two years ago that death came knocking. But just the other day. I noticed a little thing. A cool breeze. And last night I saw the stars. Not really little, but almost unnoticed by me, at least to write about. And there was the Milky Way, and Orion’s belt, and I wished for a falling star, but none came. And that was alright. And I heard the sound of falling water in my fountain in the night under the big oaks. Little things. My things. And I think perhaps, death has yielded the field. I can have the little things for a while. I guess death knows it will triumph in the end. So, why harass me in the meantime.

So, I think it’s back to finding the majesty in the little things. The laugh of a friend. A smile. A warm touch. A nice meal. Music. A dance. A walk in the evening air. A stack of lumber from an old fence. A raked bit of yard. A flame light burning on the porch to welcome me home. The music of the spheres. The sound of the universe, where death is one thing, but not the only thing. It’s just a note in a song I’m singing, a song we’re all singing, and in a bit the sun will rise, and and we’ll see the harmony of the sun and the clouds, and won’t that be nice?

John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver's Tale