Driving Home

Here is what takes so long: Just getting
to today. Each moment that has had
to occur before today ever arrived in

its own form.  You could not have
predicted that it would look like it
does.  Last night I was driving home

after dropping my daughter off in
another city where she will live for
the summer.  Not too far along the

way the cars ahead had suddenly
slowed and braked and I did, too.
In the middle of the road, a fallen

deer, on its left side, struggling under
the confusing pain, its flank torn open
and its front legs pawing the air and

its head lifting and lifting as I drove
past and I felt immediately sad and
tears filled my eyes and I wished that

I could sit with the deer while it died
but I knew I would only frighten it
more; deer do not feel comfort from

humans.  I drove on in the night and
I remembered Pema Chodron saying
that we can breathe in the pain of

another and breathe out healing.  For
a long while I breathed in the pain and
fear of the deer and I breathed out

peace and comfort.  I did not wish
my children to know I had seen death
on the road.  Earlier I had seen a baby

deer lying dead on the side of I-94 but
I had not seen it before it died.  Already
dead, it was an inert object on the side

of the road.  I was thinking how life
is always individual and how I know that
because of death.  Each time something

or someone dies, it is specific and others
feel the effects of the flap of the butterfly's
wings.  If it had been a person in the road

would it have been enough to breathe in
pain and fear in those final moments?  And
then today came along and everything that

came before it had to occur for today to
arrive.  But today the other deer were missing
the one who died, and I am still missing you.