There are days I don’t want to ANYTHING. I want to quit fighting aches and age and my own ignorance. I want to lie still, in a bed, and stare at the ceiling and wait for the final silence.
I am old enough to greet it; I am the age my father was when he greeted the final silence. He surrendered after he buried my mother, but he had longed for it years prior to his surrender.
But I am not my father; the day passes, and the next finds me struggling to touch one more person, learn one more thing.