The day Helen died, George and I went to visit her in the hospital. They had lived together in community for decades, and had often expressed their deep bond by driving each other crazy. George needed a nightlight in the hall - Helen would unplug it and take it to her room. George wanted the stairlight on - Helen would turn it off. George was a big man with enormous hands, red and often a bit swollen - Helen was a tiny woman with extremely small hands. On that last afternoon, George sat quietly by Helen's bed as she held one of his fingers - more than held it, she clung to it, her tiny hand, slowly turning blue as her body's oxygen grew more insufficient, clutching one of George's huge fingers. Even as George's arm grew tired, he didn't want to pull away. So they sat in silence, the hands that turned lights on and off now holding each other with the tender knowledge and commitment of so many years, the little blue hand, the big red hand... It spoke to me of what really matters in the end.

At Ron's wake, each community member placed a red rose in a vase beside the coffin in remembrance of his life with us. Marie Claire was reluctant to step forward to do this, but later, on her own, she took a rose and went to the coffin. When she came to the vase she turned instead to face Ron's parents, walked over and gave the rose to his mother.

photo: Lorraine, Martin, Lucille: L'Arche Beloeil
art by Karen Neale, L'Arche Daybreak