Finals

If I had one last hour with you would I be able and willing to speak? What could we say or sing again? Or perhaps something hidden from view until now, our final hour, otherwise left unsaid. Would words get in our way? We might compose a final anthem, torch song, jazz impovisation dispelling my decomposition story. Could you put me down like a cherished family dog? On my side you behind my head on your shoulder listening to us breathe our goodbye, drifting into a more timeless embrace. What final words might I wish to hear or might words feel too distracting for this sacred task, to fill one final hour, squeeze out all unfinished agendas before this final curtain. I fear I would have no more clue of what to say and do my last hour than I did not my first. A final wail to bookend my first noisy gasp for breath. It seems less surprising now that I so often feel a loss of words when relationships become compressed by time, or even imagined as our time's last hurrah. Why would this last hour differ from first and all self constraining hours between? Final words and lives despise predestined mortality, knowing Trees of Life predict Death Root Systems, sitting and standing and even lying down bowing in to end what we wondrously begin again.