Making Cranes

We are one day from the seventh anniversary of my late wife’s passing.  I have learned, in these last seven years, to reflect only upon the highlights of our shared journey while she was here.  But as we approach the eleventh of May, shadows have fallen across me.

I think of Uyen as bedridden again.  I see myself moving her from place to place in the house, wishing for some miracle to give her mobility again.  I recall the pills, the too-quiet hours, and Uyen’s heartbreaking grace in all of this.

I was hurt.  I was angry.

Yesterday, as I walked under our Mayday tree, I thought about the last day I pushed Uyen outside in a wheelchair.  The tree was in full bloom then—a shroud of sweet, white blossoms.  “Listen to those bees,” she said as I turned her to face the sun near the tree.   She smiled broadly.  Above us, a thousand bees hummed their spring song as they swarmed around the tree.    

Somewhere toward the end—as Uyen did her best to survive—she told me about a very young woman who had been informed she would soon die from cancer.  “She was sure she could live if she started making origami cranes,” Uyen told me.  “As long as she continued to make cranes, she would live.  So she started making cranes.”

Because I am me, I asked the question: “How did that work?  What happened to the girl?”

“One day, she couldn’t make a crane.”

--Mitchell Hegman