Every last drop. Every last crumb.

When we visited one of our students in his village Ophelia, my new small friend, served as faithful escourt. Really. She wouldn’t let go of my hand!

Today we were walking to the market and had just crossed the bridge when we heard a crash and a motorbike started skidding toward me on its side.  He had collided with a bicycle not thirty feet from us.  The cyclist lay on his back convulsing and my stomach dropped out as I realized in full force there was no one to call.  No one here could help him.

I grabbed Krista’s hand and said quietly, “Don’t look.  We should go.  Walk.”  We swam up stream as people poured off their porches to witness the tragedy.  I glanced back only once and saw him limbs leaping as if plucked by an invisible puppeteer.  He was dying.

I have felt grief and loss but never passed in the presence of death.  An icy knot clenched in my gut and spread through my body.  Death is all too common here.  I knew it was only a matter of time.  I knew I was living in a bubble of false security.  But that didn’t make it any less traumatic to have it pop.

Life is so fragile, so precious.  So ephemeral and fleeting.  I came to Africa to savor every last drop and crumb, to really live my best life.  I knew it would be dangerous to come here, but the only sure thing about life is that it ends.  What if I can?  Here I am.

The day was eerily normal and Krista and I didn’t speak a word about it until later.  A cloud hung over everything, though, and still does.  I cannot get the cyclist’s image out of my mind.  I cannot stop thinking about my small brother Abe… without whose strong spirit I wouldn’t have changed my course and found my way here.

“The butterfly counts not months but moments.  And has time enough.” Tagore