By Lisa Huddleston
Yesterday I watched a grandfather point out a snake skin lying in the grass of the cemetery where the family stood waiting to bury one of our own. His granddaughter seemed intrigued but hesitant to lift it from the ground. And I pondered. How like that skin our bodies are once we have outgrown them in death. And how hesitant we are to touch the shell that is left behind.
As they were leaving I asked the young girl if she was going to leave her treasure behind. “The women talked her out of it,” the grandfather said.
But then the girl looked at him and his eyes lit up as she ran over to retrieve her prize. She handed the fragile skin to him, and the old man smiled, gently folded it, and carefully carried it to the car where he hid it in the trunk so “the women” wouldn’t see.
It made me smile, too.