The breeze becomes wind for a few seconds. I am aware of the restlessness of birds, the clatter and knock of dry, leathery oak leaves on branches that can't let go, the feathery swaying of pines. I planned none of this. This is the luxurious, slow pace of solitude. And I am free.
Some people fear dying alone.
But some part of me wishes I could go somewhere alone to die. To savor for the last time the story I helped write with this gift of too large a life. For all prayers are plural. Give US this day. Meet us here in the last few pages of our story.