I walk through the bustling crowds. The others pass by, unaware of the one that moves amongst them. A weathered soul that has faced more than one demon. They mingle and laugh, unaware of the …
I walk through the bustling crowds. The others pass by, unaware of the one that moves amongst them. A weathered soul that has faced more than one demon. They mingle and laugh, unaware of the warrior heart that’s hidden in this old and feeble body. A heart that has risked vulnerability, put trust in the imperfect, and loved without conditions.
A body that was once strong and magnificent, with arms that carried the broken, hands that consoled tormented minds, and lips that kissed with passion unmatched. I’ve slowed to a crawl in this eighth decade of my long and full life, and I’m tired. My diminished beauty is now replaced by the young and fresh. The new. The unscathed and unmarked. The pure.
I am not known for the love I gave, nor the life I lived. My bravery is not seen, as I limp through waves of distracted people. The threads of knowledge of my existence have all but broken. The souls that bore witness to my adventures and accomplishments lie beneath the heavy ground. Under etched stone where I too will lie.
In my last moments, there will only be one hand to hold. It will not be the one who had my heart. Who in the depths of their own selfless heart, took and caressed it so gently for many years. It will not be those witnesses of a past ghost. It will be one of you. The one who has held many other hands besides mine, as they slip from one life to the next. I will only be another. Another space taken up, another small prayer sent up to God. This world will continue to move, remaining unchanged from my passing. Laughter will still be loud and joyous, life will still be beautiful to the young and hopeful, and time will still make slaves of the remaining.
And in years to come, the only proof of my small existence will be the lichen-covered stone that sits amongst the others that it fails to stand out from. A picture that’s gathered a layer of dust in a stowed-away box. A picture of my youth. My strength and beauty. I will be talked about and remembered for a brief time. A lifetime, reduced to a fleeting moment. Then I’ll be stored away again, back into that box. And as life goes on, my name will fade from the mouths of those that knew me. The last proof of my life carved into the gravestone will slowly become fully covered by the mold and mildew of time. I’ll be forgotten forever.
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