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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