Reflecting Upon a Day of Death

Death is there to keep us honest and constantly remind us we are free.

I am no stranger to death. The cloaked figure with scythe has visited my life far too often, stripping me of family and friends by the dozens, whittling my Christmas card list (I really don’t have one) down to very small numbers.

These days I lean in the direction of reflection rather than grief when I witness a death, partly because of a numbness derived over time, partly because of a belief in energy and spirits, that the final goodbye really isn’t goodbye at all.

A farm, especially in the springtime, is a time of birth, is a lively place, a joyous place, new babies being born, winter hibernators awakening, birds returning from distant shores. I love the spring, reasons given above, and you can add a feeling of expectation, a feeling of youth, a feeling that perhaps, against all logic, death really isn’t approaching as fast as I believe it is.

So it was yesterday, a day not unlike other spring days, sunshine oddly visited us, a touch of warmth carried in from the south on a soft breeze, and upon my arrival a sense of excitement, farmers/relatives all huddled around one of the expectant goat mommas, no longer expectant, having just given birth to two kids.

One, as expected, licked clean, the warmth of its mother’s womb radiating outward, all wobbly legs and curiosity unbridled. The other, too weak to stand, cold to the touch, seeming to know the odds against it from the very moment it thudded upon the ground, weak sounds, pleading sounds, barely able to hold its head high.

The outcome was seemingly preordained, but that didn’t stop Bev from wrapping the little fellow in a blanket and rushing him to her bus, where she sat with him, trying to raise his body temperature. And when Bev needed a break, a couple hours later, I went up to spend time with the newest member of the farm, only to find he had lost his fight, his eyes seeing nothing, his little heart unable to beat the odds.

Death happens on a farm. Knowing that fact does not make it easier to witness.

A couple hours later eggs were hatching in the incubator, our newest  batch of chicks making their grand appearance, twenty-one days, right on time, one final push with legs and wings and beaks, pushing the egg shells out of the way, finding the strength in tiny legs, standing for the first time, a rush of chirps as they witnessed their new home and strange surroundings.

All but one.

One did not have the strength to stand, laid flat, struggling to no avail, frantic chirps becoming weaker with each minute.   I picked it up, held it close in cupped hands, providing as much warmth as possible, but the outcome was predictable, we see it in almost every batch of eggs, one which, for whatever reason, just doesn’t find the nourishment it needs in the egg, just a random roll of the dice, you make it, you make it, sorry, little guy, you do not.

Truthfully, we all face the same odds when sperm meets egg, the same roll of the dice. Some breeze through it all, all toes and fingers, all organs working properly.  Some, for whatever reason, find themselves with a great struggle still to come after navigating their way from the birth canal.

There but for the grace of God, some say, while others shrug and talk about the stars aligning properly. Me, I don’t know which camp I’m in regarding such heavy matters.  All I know, with certainty, is every life matters, every life is precious, no matter the species, and I was touched . . . am touched . . . to have spent a little time with the two who did not make it the other day. No one . . . no creature, should die alone. I don’t suppose it’s important to many, but it is to me.

Bill

Do you read books? Does anyone these days? I’ve got a few, on Amazon, seventeen total. Hell, even if you don’t read, I’ve got three coloring books for your kids or grandkids.

My recommendation, my memoir, And the Blind Shall See, a tale of overcoming the odds.