Between the First Breath and the Last
Life strolls in without knocking,
drops its bags on the floor,
and says, “Right, let’s see what you’re made of.”
It gives you sunrise after sunrise,
some that lift you,
some that blind you,
and a few that punch you in the ribs
just to keep things interesting.
It teaches you how to love with both hands,
how to break without shattering,
how to hold memories like warm stones
in pockets you didn’t know you had.
It throws laughter at you in waves,
and grief in storms,
and somehow expects you to surf both.
Death, though,
waits in the corner like an old friend
who doesn’t rush,
doesn’t push,
just knows the timing better than we ever will.
It’s the quiet punctuation at the end of the wild sentence,
the door that only opens once,
the moment every heart eventually returns home.
And between those two forces
the spark and the shadow
we learn to dance.
Sometimes graceful, sometimes a mess,
but always moving,
always reaching,
always trying to wring meaning
out of the time we’re given.
Because life is fire,
death is the ember,
and we are the glow in between.
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