By Michelle Webster-Hein

February 12, 2014


When I was twelve years old and so afraid of dying, I wrote in my journal that maybe by the time I grew old I would be ready. Perhaps after ninety years, after approximately 32,400 breakfasts and lunches and dinners and nighttimes, I would be weary of life.

Today after supper, my husband rocked the babe to sleep, and I washed dishes--sank my tired hands into the hot water, squeezed the dishcloth, swiped the plates, sorted the silverware. The only sounds were glass clinking and birdsong and children laughing on the sidewalk.

I don’t think I’ll be ready. But that’s just as well.

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Comments (3) - Post a Comment
Lovely. Not ready either although much closer to 90 than a woman with a babe to rock to sleep. Life in its banal beauty is too sweet.
Claudia Geagan at 10:22am EST - February 12, 2014
This one is so simple yet holds so much weight.
Melissa at 10:59am EST - February 12, 2014
This added to the topical synchronicity poking at me this week regarding death. The Psalms in my daily reading; Tolstoy's Death of Ivan Ilyich I picked up at a used book store and started reading last night; a meditation on the hereafter someone left on my desk this morning. There will be another one now when I get home and reflect on my sink full of dirty dishes....
Scott at 1:57pm EST - February 12, 2014

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