I used to think that death would be exciting. Not in a thrill-ride kind of way, with goose-bumps and anticipation. Not exhilaration, but startle. Like when the movie villain appears so suddenly that you jump out of your skin a little. It’s not unexpected; you know he’s there, hiding in the closet, but somehow it still takes you by surprise.
A death!
I know better now. In the last week I have discovered that sometimes death takes its time. It is a slow, meandering process, measured in the drips of an IV and the sound of time running out.
I wonder, how many breaths make up a lifetime? If I knew my number would it make each more precious? Or would the number stagger me, make me feel rich enough to waste them away?
A death.
Instead of the movie villain, in this instance, I think death was a welcome friend. It quietly crept into the room this morning and escorted Walt’s father on. He has set out on a new journey, equipped all the knowledge and wisdom he has gained in his nearly eighty years on earth.
He will be missed.
