temporary

It has been a long time since I've made any cranes, since I've been here.  It made me sadder and sadder and sadder still.

Several weeks ago we had a house full of company, which included several kids- from middle elementary to teens.  One of them came to me with this bird in his hand and confessed that he had picked it up, thinking it was paper, and the tip of its head had broken off.  He was so contrite, so upset that something so fragile had broken at his touch. 
I paused, considering for a moment, and responded that it was ok.  These pieces are temporary, more fragile than paper, not meant to last.  He looked immensely relieved.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Last night I had a call from my father that one of my cousins, a beautiful woman who had always seemed to have a golden life, but who had been immensely troubled over the last five years, had taken her life.  She was in her early 40s, estranged from her husband and her five children.  

This news brought back so much  grief and I wondered what was happening that THIS seemed to be her best option. And I wondered if every suicide I encountered would bring Papatya right back.  Someone called it "a final slap in the face to her family," but I don't think that my cousin, or Papatya, realized the ramifications that their death would bring to their far-flung families, friends, neighbors. 

This life is fragile. It is temporary.