Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Lesson Learned #4 of 2012

"You already know how this will end."

You create mystery. You hide behind metaphors and sarcasm. You build the bridges that create distance. You make plans that conflict. You close your eyes during the scary parts.

And yet, no matter how far you try to run from the Truth (capital T), you know it. But this time, instead of riding out on false hope, you'll raise that glass of scotch to the worst of the worst. You won't wish for anything else. You'll find grace in the acceptance of a dire outcome.

You won't run from its bedside. You'll stand next to the darkness and take a peek inside. You'll look into its face and gently stroke its hair. You'll smell the dampness it leaves behind on the walls. You'll listen to the silence it evokes even in the old, noisy home. In its presence, you will become still and aware. You will already know how this will end, so you wait for it.

When it happens, you'll sit on the couch and watch the world unravel before you.
You'll wait for the hospice nurse to come in and pronounce it. You'll watch his mother wail into the carpets. You'll want to cry, but you already knew death was imminent.

You'll stand over the kitchen sink and wash the dishes. You'll store away the tupperware. You'll dry the glasses with a paper towel. You'll count your fingers and wiggle the toes in your boots. You'll take a deep breath and let the air come out. And that will be it. No other dramatics. Just life as it is and the knowledge of knowing what it is not: infinite.

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