Creator1

These days pass by feverishly, busying us each with work, school, economics, children, taxes, and more. We take the warming, embracing, sunsets for granted on these days.

Cursed and exhausted, we lament and yet cherish the end of the day, company together is the ultimate medicine. Is sleep a preview of death, and if so, what is to be said about those who crave it?

I wonder in these times of quiet content, where we can sit and watch birds hop, plants grow, dirt dry, wind blow, who will get stuck with the unsavory chore. Who will be the last one of us to remain, who will be the last to hold our hands, who gets that grim responsibility?

And when they are standing there, that dutiful person above everyone else, will they wonder if the ground is colder from where they stand? Does the ground feel cold to those in it? After all of us are gone, and you’re the only one left, who will bury you? I hope you have someone as loving, dutiful, and willing to look after you.

Are you colder now, or when you were the last of us? As you approach your own demise now, do you welcome it? I’m not sure which I would feel. I’m not sure if I’m a brave enough soul to live with the emptiness. The last of us could not be me.