Hope dies last
I went to Cafe Degas last night to meet B for dinner – it had been a long sad day for both of us. The bartenders from Pal’s had all congregated under the wings of E, sobbing, mourning, hugging, trying to find meaning from a senseless act of violence. Yesterday, the news at Pal’s polarized our little community – there were the “good neighbor” people who rallied for Pal’s as a community gathering spot and on the other side, were the cute, young female bartenders, hired to attract business and yet not offered a secure environement even though they asked for it – myself and others – who felt that this pall has been hanging in the air for too long a time and this violence was not surprising.
Horrible to watch such tragedy on top of everything else our small universe has suffered.
And at dinner, our conversation drifted to more personal attentions and realizations – about who we are and what can and can’t be changed about the very nature of who we are – and what shouldn’t change. In life, you have the option to keep pondering what to leave in and what to leave out and how to move forward.
In death, none of it matters.
Yesterday, in the midst of an awful lot of darkness, a baby was born. As my Flower always says in her Georgian accent, “Hope dies last.”