The service for John's mom brought a hundred people together. Her daughter from Colorado flew out, bringing a back pack of clothes and toiletries. Airlines are less generous these days about carry ons. Some allow you one bag for free, others charge you for even that clutch of belongings. 

We walked through Rachel's home, full of objects she cared about last week but no longer matter. She had set her mind to getting things in order, and passing on mementos. But all those intentions expired with her. The furniture and dishes, papers and curtains will all be rehomed, or donated to charity. Things that were valuable, like her birth certificate and her to do list, are now just paper. 

When you pass from this world to the next you take no carry on luggage. All that goes with you is intangible. I wonder what will come with me when I die. None of the quilts, tragically enough, but the love of making them sticks. My anxiety around Ben and his future will dissipate, and trust will take its place.

Rachel is again with her Oliver. He left last December, but she held on tight to her love for him. There was no possibility of leaving that behind. When she steps into his embrace again, it will feel as if there was no interruption at all. 

And their love will carry on.