I know the weight of a soul.
In 1907, Dr. Duncan MacDougall was determined to see what a human soul weighed. He convinced several terminally ill folks to lay on a large scale. In all but one instance, the change in weight at the exact moment of death was 21 grams. That’s equates to roughly three-quarters of an ounce.
Of course MacDougall’s findings were controversial. Everything about the soul is, it seems. That’s why poets are better than scientists when grasping such matters.
Yesterday, I celebrated St. Will’s Day.
Six years prior, joined by Dr. Rachael Kleidon and Atticus M. Finch, I cradled Will’s broken-down body when his soul took flight. It felt to me that his soul was everything, and far more substantial than the weight of his empty vessel.
When Will died in my arms, his body became a wisp at most. Empty and airy.

Still, I did not want to let it go, even though Will was no longer in there. I kissed his forehead, his nose, his chest a hundred times, and thanked him for his frien…
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