Emily Hoffman

    On Sunday I glanced at the obituaries in the Omaha World-Herald. This is not a routine practice; it only happened this week on my way to the editorial pages.
     A woman's face caught my eye, giving me pause.
     Her eyes made me slow my hand, gaze at her photo and wonder about her. She had been beautiful, with mocha-colored skin, luminous eyes and a smile that rivaled any movie star. I wondered about her and the people that had paid extra to have her picture in the paper.
     This woman, only 58 when she'd died, encountered heartache in her life. She'd lost two husbands, her mother, and a brother before her own death. She'd raised four children. I have little doubt she worked hard, loved well, and gave all she had to those around her.
     Her children, her father, all those who loved her that are still alive have to feel a little cheated that she's gone, never to come back to share holidays with them. Never will they feel her arms around them, hear her voice, touch her hand or eat her biscuits. Death is never fair or friendly. It causes a rend in the soul that eventually mends but rarely heals over completely.
     I get a little sad when I read an obituary or a death notice. I feel empathy for those who have been left when I read the poems and remembrances loved ones of the deceased put in the paper a year, or two or 10 years after the death. It's hard, this being left.
     Thinking of death, mine in particular, doesn't depress me. Not yet anyway. Not at my age, with my health, and the jobs I still must complete while on earth. Death can come unexpectedly, but I am not of the belief I can cheat death when it's my time to go. So why fret over what will happen one day which I have little control over?
     Death doesn't frighten me. It does the opposite for me; it makes me want to live every second fully. I'll be half-way to 90 in a few days, and I still have many places to visit, dreams to achieve, books (yet to be written) to find publishers for, and heartaches to weather. I still have some growing up to do, parts of myself to understand, personal goals to meet, and friends to make.
     There are days when I feel I've swallowed the sun, and nights when I am certain I can touch the moon. There are those days when I am surrounded with good will, and with people who love me. There are days when the chapters or articles or columns seem to write themselves. When the mail is full of good things, bills seem far away, and the checkbook balance is up.
     Then I find times when this life tries me. Those are the days I don't like the feel of myself in my skin or the brain that's been plopped into my head. I don't like the face I see in my mirror. Some days exasperate me, when I can't find the words I want, when nothing falls together right, when I don't understand the pettiness of some people, and the narrow minds of others. There are some days that hurt, when I am misunderstood, accused and scared.
     Would the 58-year-old Omaha woman trade places with me on those days I feel as if the world is against me? I would venture to guess, yes. Would her family? Certainly. They realize that life is always a gift.