Life is something best cherished when it’s held 

in a palm, cupped between aged fingers. I always imagined it

to be the color of molten glass, clear yellow on the outside,

liquid red within. When my grandmother passed away,

I imagined it dripping from her fingers—not into the earth

but into my ready palms, and into my mothers’. I imagined us

holding the precious drops of rose ichor and knowing exactly

what was left for us to do. We poured it into a crystal glass 

labeled memories, and set it on our kitchen counter and

surrounded it with photographs. We kindled the warmth 

of the glow with our voices, fed it scraps of stories shared 

from lips long silent. We baked it merengue cookies and asked it

if it had any critiques to our recipe, then brought it to the shore 

of Lake Michigan and watched the sunset pale in comparison

to it, careful not to spill a single drop. And when the brilliant red 

of life’s radiant glow began to dim, we knew it was time to let it go

and we returned to the hospital room to pour it back into cupped hands

where it belonged. It wasn’t easy, but it was right, and we knew

that every second spent alongside it was worth a second lifetime 

without it. There are some things that can only be learned by doing, 

and one of those is watching life move on. Life is something best cherished 

when held in a palm, yes, but life is best lived to the fullest—

but only so full as to not spill a single drop.