A Life Well Lived

She comes for you now, her sickly sweet smell filling your nostrils and erecting within you a picture of what life used to be. Taking you back to a time when melted Popsicle covered the front of your shirt, when rays of sun gauged the day, when bare feet had allure. But here in the cover of night, there are no yellow-golden rays to warm your damp and ever-cooling skin. There is no shadow of the barn to tell you it's dinner time or coon of the Mourning Dove to bid you good morning. The sun has set on this day and all the days to come. He's done his duty and bid you farewell, off to chase the moon on the other side of this round planet. When he comes back round to open up the flowers and stir the cat from her slumber, he won't notice one less face looking up to greet him.

She's on the bed beside you now, this mistress of the night. She reaches for you, her skin limp and dangling off her long and bony fingers, age spots filling the exposed skin on the back of her hand. Her fingernails are thick and yellow. She reaches up with her other hand and removes the hood that shrouded her face. In the light of the stars that speckle the sky outside your open window, you can see her pale, thin lips turn up into a smile, the teeth having long ago deserted their post.

"Are you ready?" she asks, her voice aged and deflated of its gusto, like a fire sputtering it's last.

A rhetorical question.

You close your eyes one last time, willing this moment to pass. To fade into a dream. To disappear into the abyss of your mind where so many memories have already gone. Am I really ready to go? Have I done enough?

Instead, you feel the unexpected warmth of her hand as it embraces your own, now so cold and clammy. She strokes your palm with her thumb, like an old friend come to comfort you.

A silent tear slips down the crepe-like skin that covers your face and you remember.

A life well-lived.

Not marked by big accomplishments, fame, or fortune. But by a wife that loved you; who cherished the morning cup of coffee you made a priority and who bore you four children. You see their faces now in your mind's eye - each one an astonishing mix of both you and your blushing bride as they look up at you from a bundle of blankets, from behind the window of a school bus, from the front of the church on their wedding day. You see the love you shared with your grand kids; the many donuts eaten on Saturday mornings, the way they wrapped their tiny fingers around yours when you crossed the street, the endearing way they earnestly prayed before each meal. You relish the memory of the time you spent reading books, looking at the falling autumn leaves, and holding your wife's hand. A small swell of pride rises in your chest at the thought of those you're leaving behind. At the way you taught them to live and love and cherish. The fear of leaving too soon disappears like a wisp of smoke and your shoulders are no longer so heavy.

You open your eyes for the last time this side of eternity.

This mistress is now bathed in light; the open window letting in a cool breeze and gently blowing her hair around her face. Her eyes bright and full of hope. Her hands, now both embracing your own, are pink and warm.

You look around the room and notice now that your family is there with you. Standing around you, holding hands, praying, singing, and reminiscing on the memories, the lessons, the examples you showed them.

She smiles at you once more, this mistress of the night. Her teeth white, her smile warm. Though you don't want to go, you know it's time. Now, surrounded by loved ones you realize with pride you are leaving behind a life lived not extravagantly, but a life lived with intention.

"Maybe I didn't do too bad after all," you whisper to yourself as you close your eyes once more and let her lead you on.