O Death
Death is nearby; the veil between worlds is indeed tissue thin. Death passes close, so close we can smell it, touching some but not others. When it has gone, those of us still here sigh with relief...
What if Death is not some Grim Reaper but a Dark Mother, whose sweet embrace we somehow miss? A deep, maternal longing we’ve always had but could never quite name? A reunion, a making whole, putting together that which had been torn asunder, going back. What if She is the Home we’ve always been seeking? And all who pass into her hands are going Home again. She is merciful, taking away all pain, all that we fear, all that we doubt, all that we regret. What if dying is the most profoundly compassionate thing that the universe could give to us—a mother to watch over us forever as we sleep…
I don’t know why, but I’m not afraid of Her. When the time comes to meet Her, I, for one, will look forward to reacquainting myself.
What if Death is not some Grim Reaper but a Dark Mother, whose sweet embrace we somehow miss? A deep, maternal longing we’ve always had but could never quite name? A reunion, a making whole, putting together that which had been torn asunder, going back. What if She is the Home we’ve always been seeking? And all who pass into her hands are going Home again. She is merciful, taking away all pain, all that we fear, all that we doubt, all that we regret. What if dying is the most profoundly compassionate thing that the universe could give to us—a mother to watch over us forever as we sleep…
I don’t know why, but I’m not afraid of Her. When the time comes to meet Her, I, for one, will look forward to reacquainting myself.
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