In the Shadows of Palms

Tucked within the curtains of twilight and the penumbra of sparkly Christmas decor, I couldn’t see the neighbor who greeted me last night. Yet I knew she was there—she beckoned me by name. Her ethereal voice tinkled with the tiny stars she draped around the palm tree that defines her front yard like an exclamation point.

Tall contours and swaying limbs merged and shifted as a breeze played peekaboo with darkness and light. Eclipsed by glitter, my neighbor seemed to be of another world. Yet she was a few feet away. Thus, we spoke—unseen, like in a sacred confessional—in the shadows of the palms.

In that moment, I thought of you, Bill. Of the friendship forged in the sunlight of the Soleil lounge. Of the pumpkin pies we shared in the warmth of your dining room, and the coffee we shared in mine. Of our talks about God. Of the evenings you called to me out of the dusk as you rode down Fontanella on your red scooter, exuberant in your re-found mobility. Of the portrait you will paint when we meet again.

As the brightness of your light melts into that of your Maker, I cannot see you. Yet I know you are there, playing hide-and-seek in the veil between the darkness and the Otherworld. The light eclipses your mortality, Bill, but not your humanity.

Like my neighbor, invisible within the light she spun, your presence is strong. Although I can’t see you, I behold your friendship, hear your laughter, and embrace your courage, enveloped as you are by the shining glow of Christmas and the beliefs you hold dear.

Merry Christmas, my friend. May your spirit grow ever brighter.

The encounter with my neighbor happened on a Tuesday. I wrote and delivered this on Wednesday. Bill died on Friday.