Unexpected Lessons

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.
Early morning breaths on the way to work that have to ease into the shock of winter winds.
Joyous, deep, homecoming breaths as my feet carry me like a feather up the stairs of Joseph's House.
Breaths coming in the rippling, uncontrollable peals of laughter around the dinner table.
Easy breaths as pillow talk sinks into sleep.

These are my daily breaths.

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.
The short, anxious gasps before a resident collapses.
The round, full breaths as conversation increases with health.
Sweet, sweet breaths,
sweeter for the immense effort they take,
with my fingers intertwined with older fingers 
and a sweet, sweet head
falls asleep on my shoulder.

These are my daily breaths. 

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.
The breath that was carrying me out the door
until my exhale caught in my throat in a way that told me
to go back and say
goodbye.
A breath held and savored
as I feel the spirit of someone I still love 
touch me as I walk past his favorite chair,
even though his breaths ceased months ago.
The shifting of breaths as I hold vigil by the bedside
that tells me that time is running short.

These are my daily breaths.

I sit on the bus amongst strangers 
and by listening to their breaths,
just listening,
I know their lives.
I feel their sadness, excitement, pain, 
their hopes.
And I almost turn to apologize,
to say that I only know because my life is intricately tied 
to the breaths of five people 
who also were once strangers.
That I have slowly come to learn how to listen 
to the silences between the breaths.
How I never knew that I would be able to tell you,
by just listening,
when someone is going to die.
I never knew.

I am learning how to measure life in breaths.