Bodies just can't contain our inhabiting spirit. We spill out of our pores. Laughter. Tears. Poetry. Painting. What lingers behind when we have left the room. These are all floating or landed bits of us, bubbled over and out. It is a miracle more doesn't escape. I wonder if death is the spirit's final triumph over imprisoning skin and bones.
My little Suki was like the personification of a wild, cackling, happy laugh. She passed away early this morning while we were asleep. Her energy still ricochets across the walls. Soon she will be out and in the buzzing bee, the strung out squirrel, the girlish butterfly, the affectionate buttercup, the unruly wildflowers, until she is scattered further still towards freedom.