seeing what we wanna

Rich is near death.

Even those who know -- don't.

Theresa, an aide who always tries so hard, says Rich is hungry, he wants dinner, it's eight at night and he hasn't eaten since one...

"I'll take care of it," I say.

Out of the refrigerator she pulls a plastic tub of ravioli, a tub of soft spirally pasta covered in red, and now she's opening the vegetable bin...

"I'll stir fry some vegetables...he probably won't want the ravioli, it's out of a can..."

"The pasta doesn't look much better," I laugh. "Go. You have other things to do. This I can take care of."

I bring the microwaved spirals, a dozen or so, to Rich.

Rich?

That's who I wanna see.

I bring the fork to his lips. Hungry? I whisper.

He doesn't open his eyes. Slightly shakes his head, no.

I eat the dishful, and go back for more.

I once believed that humans can know God, but can never be God.

I could even produce theological proofs.

Now I know what I have always known, but didn't wanna see -- the opposite is true.

During these past months, I occasionally slipped back into, as Stephen Levine writes in A Year to Live, the "recognizable neighborhood, no matter how unsatisfying." And too limiting, and too small, and Rich isn't going to see Jesus or Buddha or Einstein (well, maybe).

He is going to see himself.

Then why Rich's broken-hearted sense of defeat and anger that is interpreted by some who visit as "now peaceful"?

Because he can't yet see, and sadness is not the same as peacefulness, and we see who we hope we are, not who Rich is.

And why my nauseating grief?

Because I know this neighborhood, in which all of the world was mine.

And I don't wanna leave.

Candace