Return to Source

As her coffee and my steamed milk arrived, I asked Margie what she has been thinking about lately. She mumbled something about her mind not working anymore, but then she said, with great cheeriness,

“I think of death a lot. I think it’s time, and I am so ready! I know I’m not in charge, I have to wait, whatever.  But I think about it. It’s natural, and it’s right. Everything dies….” I was nodding my head and smiling. “I guess you feel that way too?”

I said yes, yes, I do. I said Marc Chagall—

“Wait, I know that name. I forget what he did, but I get a very good feeling when you say that name. What did he say?”

He was a painter, and he said when death comes, it’s like an energy that rejoins the universe where all energy comes from, like a  light that returns to its source. 

“It's what? Say that again?” The espresso machine was making an awful racket.

I said loudly, SOURCE. I gestured with both hands, a burst of energy rising up into the sky. I said Return to SOURCE. Her face lit up. 

“Source, oh yeah, source.” In Margie’s Bronx accent, that word is two syllables, SO-uss.  “I love that! Yeah, it must be like that. That’s what I want. Return to source. I’m ready for that.”