A Good Day to Die.

A Good Day to Die

 

When I was young I always feared getting

old and hoped I’d never live long enough

to dimly see my muscles wither and weaken,

 

my eyesight and hearing diminish, and the

curls go out of my hair if it hadn’t all been

banished from my head by then.

 

To eat without any teeth and drink prune juice

wasn’t meant for me. I’d die long before so

much time passed that I’d become an invalid.

 

To walk with a cane, a walker, crutches, or a

wheelchair were all unacceptable to me. Let me

die I’d pray before I ever needed help like that.

 

Old people all had a certain smell that death

knew so well,  and certified their age, I believed,

until I learned they didn’t bathe,

 

because by sitting all day they lost what it takes

to get in and out of a tub and they lost the ability

to notice they were drenched in a strong stench,

 

because a nursing home, where so many end up,

reeks of aromas worse than those unwashed seniors

who roam the halls looking for their children,

 

who promised to never put them in a home, and when they

broke that promise, said they’d come to visit every day, but

have better things to do than to see what’s in store for them.

 

It’s a shame, but that’s why I’m never getting OLD. I’m

going to live until I die and do every risky thing I

avoided when young because I had a lot to lose.

 

In my 70s now, I choose to take chances because death can’t cheat

me out of very many years, and if I die jumping from a plane,

crashing a car, or  a heart attack from running too fast,

 

it’ll be a good day to die.