I don’t focus much on death itself anymore,
but what comes after.
Whatever comes will be, and that is that.
I cannot change it, and there’s no sense in agonizing over it.
I like to imagine my body after the event, when I am no
longer conscious, and the breath in my lungs have long
dissipated like last season’s floral.
Even though the chances are slim, I like to imagine being in the forest, surrounded by trees and flowers and perhaps a stream. I imagine a sort of time-lapse, my body collapsing inward, my skin peeling away, my hair wilting like autumn leaves.
Mushrooms will grow beneath my fingers, wildflowers will tangle themselves within my hair and ribcage, blooms and blossoms of all colors will emerge through my chest. My bones will grow moss and Mother Earth will swallow me whole. Tree roots will wrap around me, engulfing me, pulling me towards themselves. I will be wanted, I will belong.
Let me nurture you like you’ve done with me, let me help you grow and flourish into who you are to become, let me be your trellis, your shield, your hill. I will allow you to bloom such as you have me, and we will flourish together, life within death. It goes on, and it is peaceful.
Where there is death or change,
new growth awaits.
