The Passing

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THE PASSING

The light strikes a brilliant show, as the sun appears to be slowly slipping past the horizon, an almost imperceptible line between earth and heaven.

Overtaking the muted colors of the distant hills and the dull blue of the afternoon sky, a vivid display emerges, radiating from that bright glowing orb as it slowly loses it's shape. From circle, to arch, to the last fading rays that desperately pierce the distant clouds in a struggle to remain part of the landscape which basked in the sun's warmth the whole day long.

I feel myself much the same as the sun. Once bright and constant, moving across my day bringing my own type of warmth to those I cherish, I am now drawn away beyond the horizon.
My view of the world I leave behind slowly fades from the mind as I struggle to retain the slightest sliver of what I value, perhaps more than life itself.

Will they remember me? What have I left behind that will be brought to mind when cues and clues snap my image back into their consciousness?

I fear there may be nothing, or perhaps worse yet, a picture of me so twisted and gnarled as to cause one to draw away from the visage. Would that be more terrible than nothingness; a memory meaningless because of it's inaccuracies, yet full of meaning skewed by false images?

I take desperate glances around the room, anxiously looking for the faces of those to whom I must say goodbye. I hear unrecognizable voices and waves of sound sometimes harsh, sometimes so soft as to make me question if they are real. But I see no one.

I am held in a vise, my body. I cannot move of my own freewill no matter how hard I concentrate, no matter how hard I press outward from the inside. The warmth I once took for granted, a lifetime of well being, is mine no longer. Now there is cold. A cold permeating deep within to my very core, so prevalent and insidious; a demon overtaking me.

So this will be my final farewell.
Is there space for regret among the few thoughts that remain?
What will be my last memory?
Will I carry it along with me?

If so, then perhaps faces... yet, will I recognize them wherever I may go?
Perhaps voices.
Hearing is said to be the last sense left before the end.
How sweet the melodic sounds of the voices from my loved ones,
singing into my ears, into my heart, my soul.
I would drift away on these voices, soft and undulating.
Rise and fall,
gently,
forever.

I hear them. They are around me now. Family, friends, lovers of the past.
Each one taking turns, speaking.
Their words are unimportant; it is the song of their souls I wish to keep with me.

Yes, it will be voices then.