What was once decent in life, can, like magic, become disproportionate in death.
Our memories switch off the ability to recall missteps, unpleasantries and altercations. It takes those things by the neck and drags them deep into the folds of our conscience, tucking them in for a Snow White sleep.
The brain, nature, survival, whatever we choose to call it, takes over, and we remember solely the good—the kind words said, the times they made us smile, their soars and their successes.
But for the majority of breaths—theirs and ours—we brush our teeth, drive to work, eat our dinner and wash the dishes. One day comes after the other and we forge on, comfortable in the knowledge that we simply like, and contently love.
It’s that very love that protects us. It shields. It transforms what’s now gone into only what we need to remain—good deeds, helping hands and a softness of spirit.
And this is understandable. After all, less is more. We tend to scrape away disagreeable to accommodate the palatable on our plates.
But this wasn’t my Papa’s way. In life, as in death, he had no tolerance for waste.
That’s why he only made room for extraordinary his whole life long.