MONDAY'S MUSINGS—RAGING AGAINST THE DYING LIGHT

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Y'know? I started out this life with 7 brothers. They were a rough and rowdy lot and I was far from a girly-girl so I fit right in. My brothers are adventurers, storytellers and poets, knights in white armor, and loving pains in the butt. We had a lot of good times. 

Last week I had four brothers left. As of Friday night, I had three.

Jonny, Steve, and Roland. Steve is still with us.
Danny is in a kilt left lower sidebar. 

I knew this death was coming. My oldest brother, Jonny Matt, and I discussed it at length. While I made my peace with its dark approach two years ago, knowing of and preparing for death is not quite the same as dealing with its arrival. The emotional aftermath of that last breath is still shreds the heart.

Last Sunday afternoon Jonny was rushed to the hospital. Instead of death being some inexact time in the future, I was now faced with the reality of days and hours.

As the sun disappeared and the storm clouds gathered so many memories, good and bad, crashed and burned on the landscape of my heart. How fitting, as night fell, were the cold winds that howled and moaned and threw frozen tears against my windows. As Dylan said, “Do not go gentle into that good night…rage, rage against the dying of the light…” And I did.

My brother's battle is done. He's at peace. I'm glad for his sake. 

It's a hard for me and for my family, to face the fact that from this time forward, life will continue without him being somewhere near listening to his music, cracking jokes, telling wild tales, or calling with another outstanding accomplishment of his son or granddaughter.

Lifting a glass to my brother Jonny and sending him on his way with the joy of the fiddle music he loved.