Dying Atoms

I read his open letter to strangers; his father is dying. He does not want to cry and let his father see.

He has been visiting his dying father and tomorrow he must fly home; he knows it will be the last visit.
Strangers reply to his open letter.
Some say, “I am so sorry your father is dying.” Others say, “I am praying your father is better soon.”
Some say, “You will see him again.” One says, “This is the end we all must face.”
Even the son, afraid for the father.
And then I remember: Me, too.

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I am going to die.
I don’t mean today,
(although I cannot say for sure).
I mean, it does not matter if I ate too much today.
(Turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes…please don’t make me go on. It was all very good,
but still. I ate a lot.)
And it does not really matter when talking about death.
Sorry: Death.
It does not matter if I am beautiful, loved, in love, rejected, embraced, sick, healthy. It does not matter.
Because
I am going to die.

I could put on my finest gown and I could drape myself in all my (real) gold.
I could put on my highest heels and I could start the music and dance.
But one day, a wind may blow and the dust that was me may swirl upward into the sky.
The atoms that were me will find a new home to vibrate in, a new structure to help build.
Where will I be then?
Will I watch my dust swirl from another vantage point?
(Am I merely atomic mass huddled into me?)
Will I smile an indulgent smile at these mortal questions then?
Or, am I in the wind and am I gone forever?
When my final breath was final, did I cease to be?
Will I cease to be?
Hush now.

I will exist in memory of those still here,
I know.
That much I know of eternity and how it works.
My eternity will be those I’ve left behind who knew me.
This is the Certain Eternity.
(Famous few whose reach grants an eternity much longer than my own.)
But do they sit invisible at holiday gatherings and watch?
Do they gaze over shoulders, invisible hands on the page, rereading words they had written
when atomic structure meant skin, hands, a voice, a person?

I do not know.
I am humbled to realize.
I am dying every day,
And yet, look, typing fingers, thoughtful eyes.
All this travail, all this uncovering, all this archeology of the self, (she always says).
Only to fold the hands once in final rest in this form of who I am when here.
When archeologists cannot find me except in bones and buried trinkets,
And I no longer know if there is even such a thing as me.

“Man is born to trouble, as the sparks fly upward.”
Saying it does not make the trouble go away.
“Man is born to die, as the day comes after the night.”
Admitting it does not vanquish death.
Night to day, day to night, death is still following life.
(Did I say following? Did I mean pursuing?)
Waiting, arms folded.
Waiting, arms open?
Hush now.

One day.
Watch my sparks fly upwards.
That was me that flashed fire and faded into ash.