We’re all going to die sometime. I am alive now, and then I will not be. You are and you will not be, too. I do not know when. I suspect the unexpectedness of it bothers us, even when we see it coming. I also know that the spirit, freed, will finally fly. Some people might feel sad about it, if they love us or care enough. They need to be. We do.
I remember the one funeral. She was two days old. The sky was ashen and I played among gravestones. My parents and hers stood over the small hole in the ground and watched as the small white casket descended into the earth. Her mother wept. Two days of life might not seem like enough to us, the long-lived. Two days. Was that not more than none? In two days it will be a Monday. Will those two days be enough? I suspect, for those afraid enough to grasp for control, it will not be. They might be afraid enough to make themselves ignore.
If the imperfect world isn’t enough then nothing will ever be. I watch the ocean as I do every week. The wind yells against the calm, the calm stands against the noise. If you don’t mind the silence of the sea, join me. Our sometime will come and I do want us to appreciate what we have now. What I have now is the letting go. What I wait to see is if it will be enough.
In my flaws I see only a past. The concept of future is always hope, while the real future is never in view. This, right now, is a moment of clarity. It is clear that happiness is a phenomenon of the present.