Last weekend we went to Yale. My cousin generously invited us to stay in her lovely home, which was nestled in a grove of trees a breezy half hour away from campus. The ceiling in the master bedroom is supported by two ten inch hardwood beams, that stretch the length of the pitched roof. They are strong, and carry a story of their own growth in a forest half a century ago. 

From where I slept the beams seemed to get closer as they reached across the room, until they disappeared into the roof and, I can only assume, continued to bend toward each other on the other side in the expanse of open air. 

I thought of my cousin, and her late husband. The one she shared this house with, and the family they raised together. He has gone though the wall that separates this world from the next, and yet waits for her just out of sight. Not in a bored way, as theirs was a life spent racing sailboats, and feeling the whipping wind of the Long Island Sound on their cheeks. Rather he is patient, enjoying both that he knows she will follow him, and the excitement of catching her up when she does. 

The news arrived while we were there that another long time couple we care about has been separated by a wall. With a shockingly brief lead time, the wife has passed on from a brain tumor, and left her beloved behind. He is a craftsman with wood, and creates intricate and strong doors of oak. 

John wrote a song for them as a wedding present, and played it at their reception. It is the most jubilant of all his pieces, and expressed the happiness of that gorgeous day. 

Still I have a feeling that the music that welcomes her, and the doors that open to her as she wakes up in a fresh landscape will be a thousand times more suited to the wonders that await. And when her husband passes through the divide in his own time they will discover that they grew closer despite the imaginary barrier.