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The Sense of An Ending


Opening Windows, Closing Doors 


After everything, we'd arrived at a sense of peace. 

If  life was a day, perhaps we were at high tea time, but time can slip away so quickly, maybe it's even Ovaltini with a few Biscoffs time and if we don't cut down on the Biscoffs, we might be hurrying on up to bed early.

Some people don't like you making light of death. They're usually healthy and young. That's understandable. It's normal and necessary to live life as if it's forever sometimes, but with age, and for some, sadly even sooner, death sits down in your room whether you invited them in or not. So you're obliged to strike up a conversation or suffer the awkward silence. 

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All the photo's are on the wall, all the important ones anyway. Looking at them carefully, it might be surprising at how beautiful and happy most of them are. I hope so, but really, it's best not to categorise, or count. That one's just before, that one just after, it's all part of the same life. Like a landscape with the clouds racing over and the sun coming out then going in then going down and the sky above so blue or so deep it looks black but sometimes punctuated by stars and if you're lucky the moon's reflection orienting you, with the edge of the horizon, that strange intersection between earth and space that reminds us there's an above and a below and a here and a way way out there.



Opening the closet to pick out favourite things. What to do with the others. Who wants to burden anyone with ugly things ?  Have you noticed how many ugly clothes and uncomfortable shoes there are in the world ? I don't know why there should be. Maybe something else can be made from them. There, I'll wrap them in a parcel and label it recycling. 


Where to put it all and park myself ? 


We do not choose our season, the light outside our window if we make it to supper time without falling asleep.  At the end of our day, the sun may have  gone down early, leaving the moon and stars behind. We don't control our climate either, so it might be very cloudy and I'll look down on the street lamp in the lane below and be grateful. Maybe the lights across the valley will shine through the mist and I'll put some lights on so that they can see us too. 


It's unusual to be born, but not to die. Having found ourselves here sometimes we're loathe to leave despite everything. Sometimes people are waiting for something, or someone. It makes us linger longer. 











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