Since that morning,

when doctors pronounced me dying,

every morning has turned to night,

and every night has turned to morning.

 

I count one more blessed day.

I wonder how many more—

Nobody knows.

It doesn’t really matter.

 

I try to fathom

my healthy life gone,

in an instant;

my dying life begun,

careening toward a conclusion.

This has never happened to me before.

 

Dying isn’t so bad, really;

I’m surrounded by my survivors--

love swirls around me,

love I helped to create,

love given freely by busy people

who somehow found time to be here--

multiple generations,

each with their own unique skills,

their own history with me, from none to complex--

miraculously carving out day after day

To be with me one more time (two more?  three more?).

 

Dying is magical.

It inspires people to cooperate, to be patient,

to step up to service they didn’t see coming,

to be their best selves,

to build love between them.

It inspires me to be my best self--

one I wish I could have been every day of my life.

Now it happens by grace;

what was hard, now is easy.

 

Yet what was easy, now is hard.

Dying turns life on its head.

So I am doing a headstand;

I am not struggling to right myself;

I am not protesting;

I am accepting with gratitude

this last chance

to get it completely right.

 

Cynthia W. Lubow

February 2009