We ache so deeply to be witnessed, humans.

We tell our loved ones what we want
Etched on our headstones,
Granite banners planted in the ground,
Telling the world that we existed.

What if, instead, we are not here to be witnessed, but to witness,
To notice,
To look up and see the pink light on a building
And realize we are missing a sunrise?
To stand in awe that a tree knows the story
Of decades or even centuries?
To watch the tiny, curious life in a squirrel
Who blazes across a street, dodging death to squirrel another day?
To see another human and hold space for their grief?

I can rest in that.

Here lies a Soul who witnessed
Cold creek water rushing over hands,
Dry leaves scratching concrete in fall winds,
Warm trails of morning coffee in her throat,
Red fluvial branches – pulsing tributaries in her very body,
And solid, steady friendship in her bones.

A Soul whose body, once standing,
Breathing in awe of what the oldest tree knew
Is now offering that body to the earth,
Merging with all the things that give Life.

Here lies one who Witnessed.