Bird in Flight

Mrs. Johnson was laid to rest next to her beloved Lyndon today under cotton ball clouds and a rich blue sky. The cicadas mourned with the family, friends and unknowns like me. A simple service carefully orchestrated for a simple woman who was anything but.

When her service yesterday started, the rains just came. It poured right on cue, almost as if paying its final respects. It didn’t rain hard enough to flood anything, just enough to feed the hills she so loved.

She’s next to Lyndon now. She spent her married life taking care of him, managing him and supporting him. He was legendarily difficult, but I know a thing or two about difficult men. Two in particular.

They don't really mean to be that way, but they just are. And when they're not being difficult, they're the sweetest, most thoughtful men you can find. They make other people jealous of their happiness and contentment.

My guess is that she never thought twice about Lyndon’s depressions, except how to get him back from one. His bad behavior was just Lyndon being Lyndon. She picked up the pieces again and again, nurtured him, and loved him more each time.

It was, most likely, never work or an imposition or even a burden. It was the evidence of a deep, abiding love that transcended description. One that didn't ask "Why?" so much as "How?" The "Why" was obvious.

And now, our Bird has flown back to him, which I suppose is the best ending for the story of her life.

I’m guessing that they’re sipping champagne at the Driskill Hotel where they met, watching others, or at the ranch, reminiscing and holding hands.

“Bird, I’ve missed you.”

“Now Lyndon, I was never gone.”