The Longest Night

Who is to judge?
Maybe our last days in this life can be the best. Maybe the guacamole tastes perfectly balanced, the sky has never been bluer, the sheets on our bed so soft after being washed 1000 times.
Maybe we should linger in our dying, because we value these final sunsets and cups of coffee. Why are people waiting for us to die? Because they are so uncomfortable with the fact of dying, that’s why.
And it was easier, in the beginning, because life just faded away, instead of being cut off suddenly.
But grief also builds in reverse.
Bits of thread, wound on a spool, are a perfect symbol of my grandmother’s generation, who lived through the great depression and war after war. Her parents spoke German, poor like everyone else. She made herself.
Why can I not do it, with so much more?
This is my 399th post.