Entanglement

I lay in bed last night, waiting for the rain, waiting, for the distant rumbles of thunder and the steady downpour that would lull my tired soul into oblivion.  It never came—neither the storm nor the slumber.  And in those hours of waiting, of lying still in the roar of oppressive silence, I had a conversation with Death.  What will you miss? he whispered. What will you miss? I will miss the feeling of late spring, when the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, cools, as I step into the breezy embrace of a shade tree.  I will miss daybreak and sun gazing, and hearing the symphony of songbirds when sunlight kisses the horizon.  I will miss the smell of freshly cut grass and the taste of honeysuckle on my tongue.  I will miss barefoot walks along the gulf and the feeling of salt and sand on my skin.  Go on.  I will miss staring at the stars in the night sky and sharing secrets with the moon.  I will miss feeling the crisp autumn wind in my hair, ...