“I’m dying,” she whispered. “The doctor said.” She believed the doctor, so it was clear that death was close. How many times can we pretend that death is not so, and call it a passing, an occasion to rend our clothes?
“Death, be not proud” or pretty, for you are the ultimate coward, the masked robber who comes in the night or day to take away our loves, our passions, our reasons for living on, in and of this planetary event.
But don’t flatter yourself thinking that you, death, are anonymously winning the game. I’m calling you out, calling you by name, Death. You are just an end, a rump roast well-done or nearly raw.
Never again will I pretend that death is some mysterious, mortal enemy from which I must escape or turn away. I know you’re there, waiting. I’ll keep you waiting. Until I’m complete,
and with every breath I will seek to celebrate all that WE are while you wait, death.
DEATH HAS WON!!! Won what? Even as a body decays, new life is born from that. Even ashes can fertilize and nurture the ground. The joke’s on you, death. Your trophy is just a participation medal.
Other than spurring on human effort or pushing us around, like a school-yard bully, you have no claim to fame. So, go twiddle your thumbs while WE live, love and play in our gardens, and remember: life is made much more precious because of your participation, death. You earned that medal, but WE win!