Coda

No one can take anything from me.

I am completely emptied out like a deep exhale. I inhabit the pause of woodwind musicians turning the page to play the coda. Empty, every breath I take becomes sweet like honey, intoxicating like wine, refreshing like the laughter of mountain water tripping over waterfalls.

I could have died when I was first diagnosed with cancer more than two years ago. I could not eat. I had lost 30 pounds. Death was not far off.

Consider that I died then. That means every day since then has been a gift. More than 800 days and counting. This day, this moment, sitting in Starbucks listening to music, reading bedtime stories to my daughter, waking to help my teenage son get an application out, hearing my wife laugh about the antics of our crazy St. Bernard -- all a gift. I have lost nothing. I have gained it all.

I am not counting down the days. I am counting up the moments that I have been blessed to live in such grace.