My grandfather was 71, I were 15,
when for some reason we, briefly,
talked about death; mine was not
a family in which things as such
were spoken often. I said
something about wanting to live
forever and ever, and he,
after a moment of silence,
said that sometimes you have
lived long enough, and that
death, he said, can be
something to accept, not
to avoid, when the years
have made you tired. He
lived to be 82, and we
never talked about
it again; and yet, now,
when I am closer to his age
than to that kid of fifteen,
there are moments
when I think I know
what he felt, on brief moments
when I can look at the shining
blue snow in the February sun
and accept, with little regret,
that I might never see
another day like it; or
that after spring rains
I would not be there to walk
on the dead grass and
leaves of the gone autumn,
now slumbering
under that snow.
07.02.2021
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