Katrina Kaye
I get it.
The raging—
it’s exhausting.
At some point,
you just have to call it a day.
Leave the living
to the young, to the ambitious
to those who have not yet asked
“is this all there is?”
At some point, as enchanting
as the sun sets and rises,
the predictable actions
of turning days are not enough
to entice a rewatch.
When desire has desiccated,
when the cat’s purr no longer
creates the curve of a smile,
when all the music and magic and poetry
and rage— Yes, once the rage is gone,
the dying light becomes more
comfort than adversary.
At some point, unbeknownst to you,
you felt the most joy you ever would.
That most perfect day was a
forgotten afternoon in your
thirties that you don’t remember
because you were having too
much fun to write it down
and forgetfulness is much
crueler these days.
Don’t let some kid,
even your own,
who has trouble dealing
with his own grief
keep you plugged in.
No, old man,
if that light is fading
and the closing music is playing
then do go,
gently,
because a kind departure
at old age is a gift few of us
have the privilege to receive.
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