Everyone fears Death.

They delay him with lotions and potions, with 
surgeries and mirrors, chasing younger and 
younger faces, as if the scent of their perfume 
would keep Death at bay.

Do I envy their zeal for life?

Death is kept at arm's length, a putrid, masked 
figure. His sweet decay breathes warm upon 
their necks as they run and run, arms open, 
embracing light and sun and love.

And I, too, love this life.

I love the summer sun and gentle rain, the soft 
white snow and mountain range. I love the 
people, their kaleidoscope of colour and culture.

But I do not fear death.

Is that strange?

Death feels like an old friend come to let me 
sleep. The familiar figure at my bedside whom I 
first saw as a child, waiting quietly in the corner, 
and somehow he feels like home.

I do not want to die. Not yet.

There is still so much beauty here: so much laughter, 
so much love, so much life.

Yet in the quietness of my mind, he waits.

An ever-outstretched hand, offering peace to my 
tired body, ready to guide me across that deep 
river and into eternity.


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