A Heart’s Last Note

There are moments at the edge of life where the air itself holds its breath. I stood in that hush, listening to a heart beat its very last note. Not a grand sound—just a soft, steady punctuation at the end of a long sentence.

Afterward, a lightness filled the room. Not the fluorescent kind. Something quieter. Familiar, but not of this side. Later, on the road, that same light brushed against me, a smiling presence slipping through like sunlight on water.

When I pulled into my driveway, a tiny bird perched at the highest branch of the mimosa and sang as if the world was brand-new. That’s when the tears finally came. Not from sadness alone, but from the holiness of being trusted to stand that close to the veil.

These kinds of moments carve deep. They make you speak slower, love harder, pray softer. They make floor-scrubbing feel like worship. And they leave no patience for hollow noise.

Once you’ve held space where a soul steps through, surface talk just drifts away like smoke. What lingers instead is a quiet, steady honor. To be the one who stands watch when a life lets go… it humbles you to your knees. It isn’t sorrow alone. It’s sacred trust.