Death visited. Unwelcome, uninvited as always. It is not romantic. It is ugly.
Mary Oliver, an extraordinary poet, wrote of death so:
“Everything wants to enter the slow thickness, aches to be peaceful finally and at any cost. Wants to be stone.”
Not so, not always. Sometimes we fight, refuse relief at any cost, cling to breath no matter the rattle. Every dying seems to me to carry all…
