To a friend
The phoenix does not just burst from its egg, enflamed and ready to take on the world. There is the time inside the womb that so many seem to forget, retelling the tale with only “before it dies, the phoenix lays an egg in its funeral pyre from which it emerges moments later in the consuming blaze to live another thousand years.” What the old legends fail to mention, the hidden mystery, is that the moment between death of the old, and the birth of the new is a darkened aeon filled with the tortures of purification that takes a thousand years-out-of-time to complete. No liminal moment is without its share of sufferings, otherwise one cannot pass the threshold.
A friend of mine took her life last week. I hadn’t seen her in over four years. She was beautiful and regal, her presence and words conjured smiles. I wish I could have talked with her more, I wish she hadn’t taken the consummate step that she did. But these are my selfish desires. Perhaps this life had been her torturous aeon-out-of-time, unbearable and unjust? Perhaps not? I can only hope that she is at peace. She is, and forever will be, well loved. I raise my glass and my heart to her, sweet Irina. We know not all the lives we affect until it is too late.