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, warm sweaters and cracking fires.
I will miss a purring cat in my lap and the tail wags of a happy dog.
I will miss writing and books, poetry and music.
But most of all, I will miss the sound of my daughters when they are together, sisters being silly, laughing…laughing. I will miss laughing with them.
I smiled to myself as a long rumble of thunder rolled through the darkness and I felt that suffocating silence lifting.
Tomorrow, I begin my 59th rotation around the sun and every single moment here is precious and beautiful and wondrous.
You may think me strange, to speak with Death so. He brings me comfort, I do not fear Him because He and I have been acquaintances for decades. He, among others, reminds me to be ever grateful for breath and bone and blood. He waits for me, as he waits for you.
Be well.
