“I go to seek a Great Perhaps.”* ― François Rabelais
You didn't notice when it happened, but with age death has found you out and stalks you like a mad cassowary.
Wherever you look it looks back.
You think of your mother, slobbering, shrunken, demented, dead long before she knew it; the father you haven't spoken to in years, alone in a nursing home, rotting and uncomprehending.
You recall the perfect ******* of the wonderous first girl you loved, become an old woman, then immolated by cancer, chemo, radiation, reduced to a heap of ashes in an urn.
You hear of a friend's son's untimely passing and though you haven't seen your friend in 25 years your spine tingles with sorrow for a full week.
The smashed white cat on the blacktop you would not have noticed 20 years ago brings your heart to a full shivering stop;
the wet half fallen leaves sway like fragile tombstones in the darkened autumn trees, whispering your name.
Doom sits upon you shoulder like a pirate's parrot and sees all through your eyes.
You lost your fear of dying 45 years ago in a forgotten war, believed it meant nothing, it didn't,
but now the reaper has returned to cast his chill on everyone and everything before you.
He scatters his reminders everywhere.
And you know that once again you find yourself trapped deep within the valley of the shadow of death, alone, but you are no longer the meanest ******* in the valley.
It's enough to make you want to believe in a god of mercy, but it's far too late for divine intervention, god is dead and mercy is granted to no one.
Soon enough you will stumble into that final ambush and the bullet with your name on it that has followed you since birth will find you and come to rest and the contract made with your first breath will be fulfilled.