I've wondered long and hard about the protocol of contacting you directly, dear reader, to say I know who you are. Though it's not exactly true. I know where you are....and I know when you follow, but I don't know who you are. And what a shame, exactly, because there's been another death. Some of you are here every day, sometimes twice a day, and some of you are just passing through. But shouldn't we know each other? In these brief times when life is precious and a mere connection is so much more than a mere connection?
These last few months there seems to be a lot of death around- not from my inner circle, but it doesn't take a close death to make one appreciate the power of mortality. I adhere to all the advice, letting those you care about know that you care and not taking the small moments for granted. But those I know don't seem to get it in quite the same way I do.
The babies in Kinshasa keep dying. He tells me as I am chopping onions and he is frying beef. "Didn't I tell you?" he asks with innocence and indifference. I knew about the first baby, the little girl I held on my lap and made googly eyes at, but I didn't know about the boy. It seems to make no difference to him or to the parents, who have that on again off again relationship. She's pregnant again and I just can't imagine the grief and the joy and the heartache.
The most recent death isn't a baby. It's an artist. A dance master who I had the great honor to know, to take class with, to be mesmerized by. An African dance master. And the problem with Africa is that life expectancy is lower and no amount of time outside Africa can erase the years growing up, when maybe nutrition was scarce and medicine hard to come by. Those years make an impact not easily undone.
I realize it all too often. The age at which people you know could suddenly drop off, in the middle of a dance class or a rehearsal, as has been the case in at least two dancers I knew, one of whom I loved. She was a star and she passed in the way stars do- full of life and brillancy and unexpected. In the moment of her glory. Doing what she was born to do.
It worries me because my heart is wrapped up in another star, who maybe doesn't take such great care of himself and who is reaching the age statistics say is the tops for a male in Africa. I want every moment to be the most important moment- for him, for us, but he is busy chasing dreams and selling his soul for a chance at success. In my mind, he is already successful, but in the African mind, born of poverty and too little too long, no amount of success will ever be enough. He will always be reaching for stars and diamonds and far away worlds.
He's not the only one I worry about leaving too soon. It's a possibility for any one of us. Tomorrow is a gift, not a promise. I'm trying to make the most of this day, this moment, but some of you just won't cooperate. It's not my moment alone. It's our moment, together. Isn't it?
