So Little Time.

Sometimes you don't need reasons, you don't even need ideas...thoughts just flow into the emptiness of your mind...one after another like rain drops from the sky...Creases appear on your forehead, right between your eyebrows...it looks like something hurts deep inside, but you don't really know what it is. You shake your head side-to-side, as if to toss out a series of erratic thoughts...then you stare into the distance and try to focus upon the chipped paint on the wall or the dust particles shining in the sunlight streaming through a broken window...you don't know what it is all about, yet you know there's something... Magical? Mysterious? Enigmatic? You just don't know the right word. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Okay, so you are alive. You look up at God and smile. Thank You, you mutter under your breath. You roll your head back to rest it against the ebony rocking chair...The chair creaks a little. Maybe it's been too long now, that's what the creak conveys. You put your feet one on top another and try to assume a comfortable stance...There's nothing you can do about the cold except just pull your shawl a little more tightly around yourself...The broken window can't be mended, it's way beyond repair...The fireplace is full of ashes burning a faint orange almost going out. The clock needles have given up. The hour hand points at 1 and just stops there. You smile to yourself. You know time never stops. You try to close your eyes and think about the olden days. A video reel spins into life somewhere. You hear squeals, you see black and white, a bit of sepia too. You hear cries, laughter, you hear gun shots and you hear fire crackers. It's a mixed plate. So much to choose from. Colors, so many of them. Red, orange, green, blue, yellow. It seems like someone has haphazardly thrown them on a canvas. That's just how colorful it all seemed to be now. A little boy running barefoot across the meadows, hat in hand, whistling to a tune. A young girl with a freckled face and braided hair perched on a rock, knitting. A feeling of warmth fills you. You feel so grounded. So secure. So at home. Then you see an angel. A beautiful angel, its wings fluttering gently behind it. It comes towards you. With a tip of its head, it beckons you to follow it. You feel weightless. You feel at ease. You know it's time. You just know.

There's a knock at the door. Nobody answers. Another knock. Still no answer. The postman peeks through the broken window and sighs. The letter in his hand flutters in the breeze as he stamps it: Deceased.

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