Thinking about the fact of death. Not in a morbid, scary or I'm-going-to-do-it way, only because someone we know is probably beginning the process. Suppose once we took our first breath as newborns we began the process so let's say this person is racing to the finish after 88 years.
In the flush of robust health and the relatively young age of 57 it is easy to say I'm not afraid of death. Pain, yes but that's another subject and one in which I hope never to have an intimate acquaintance. Death, however, seems much like sleeping. (Such an original thought!) When I've lived through a big busy day the sweetest place in the world is my pillow. I sink onto it with such relief, even with the sense of a lover found after a long absence. I close my eyes with no fear of the oblivion to follow but with relief, even eagerness. There is nothing to fear in sleep.
When my mother way dying I believe she reached for it as I reach for my pillow. She'd been ill for years. Tired for years. Everything was an effort and although she loved and was loved, those ties were not enough to claim her. My paternal grandfather died during one of her hospital stays. Mom cried. He's gone before me! Death was the longed for embrace.
Today we seem to fear death. I fear not my own but the death of others. It's the grieving that kills. Death in a way is life. I hope when my time comes and I pass through that door I will feel as I do now and find that I was right.
The alternative doesn't bear thinking about.
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