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I am learning about the end of life. Learning acceptance and grasping minutes that are "normal."
And then the unexpected happens. A playwright-colleague of mine wrote a play Danny is Going to Die about his bout with cancer. It's biting and sardonic. It satirizes the treatment of patients and the disease. And it's warm and fuzzy. Only Tim could pull that off. 'cause that was Tim - wry, sardonic, highly irreverent (wonderfully, strongly, enthusiastically irreverent) and thirty. He will always be 30. On St. Patrick's Day he passed away peacefully.`
His Facebook friends declared him sharing a pitcher of his favorite appletinis with St. Patrick. Facebook was oddly comforting and there was a lot of laughter in the remembrances. Tim wouldn't have it any other way. As I prepare for a different loss, I am blindsided by Tim. And I stop preparing - because I cannot, I shouldn't - it negates what I have now - la dolce vita - even when the sweet is savory - even when I don't taste the sweet.
Someone gives me some truffles. Very unexpected.
- I cannot cook in the hospital I visit regularly. I cannot shave these over eggs or into risotto or pasta. But I could slice them into butter. Savory cookies and cream. Pick up some artisan bread. 
So I stir and with emotion - mash it into butter. My daughter's was wishing they were chocolate truffles. I am glad they are not.
It will sit in the fridge over night: 2 shaved small black truffles, 1 stick of unsalted butter - which I proceeded to salt with a few shakes of sea salt. And then it will accompany me and some mighty fine bread on my journey tomorrow to spend time with my parents and sister. We will break bread together in the seating area. We will hug and we will smile and we will laugh. We will chew and talk all at once with our mouth full.
La dolce vita from a truffle. From a gift. From remembrances. For this minute today.
