She was in her hundredth year
Too soon, too soon
She’d had a long life
I wasn’t ready, I wasn’t ready
Too soon, too abrupt
One hundred years is not abrupt
I felt that she would live forever
Foolish, very foolish
I had planned to be there, to take her hand, to whisper the definitive words, the final words, to let her go.
I had thought about a perfect leave taking.
That was for you, you wanted to let go before she did
There is no perfect leave taking, no denouement that would be enough.
It’s all about enough, isn’t it?
The body chooses it’s own enough.
The body chooses it’s own birth, it’s own death.
And we finally have to acquiese.
Our mind must follow.
Our wishes, desires, our life must follow.
The body chooses.
Enough.