Before they left their bodies

and moved into the light,

they met each other.

Perhaps it was a cleansing of sorts,

a lightening of burdens.

He survived the harbor bombing;

his neighbor survived the "enemy" internment camp.

He hung to floating debris in oil-slicked waters;

his neighbor found a friend to safeguard his farm while he was interned.

 

When they were both old men, they found themselves living side-by-side in little suburban houses.

Their kitchen doors were only 10 steps away from each other.

They had coffee together in the mornings, sitting at the kitchen table of the fellow who suffered the internment.

 

The internment survivor died first (peacefully on his couch, with his cat for company),

and we bought his house from his son.

The harbor-bombing survivor (a retired Navy guy) was still living with his wife next door, and the seller son told us we had to meet Navy guy and his wife to get their approval before completing the house purchase.

We passed inspection, moved in, and raised our sons there.

Seller son invited us over to his home for dinner once escrow closed, and after a delicious home cooked meal, we were introduced to dad (the ashes, that is, of deceased internment guy, resting in a jar on an ancestral table).

 

And so it goes,

life ebbs and flows,

trauma and healing,

meeting each other,

shared coffee and meals--

what a journey.