Day 341
As the days quickly count upward approaching Day 365, when this year-long blogging journey concludes, I don't have to think hard to see how many other goodbyes surround me.
Turning 40 this May 1st is a goodbye to my 30s, a goodbye to daily blogging, and a goodbye to what it means to be a "young person" in every which way. Sure, my friends and family members in their 60s and above may warm my heart by telling me I'm still young, but as they do, a hundred other younger souls than I will turn their heads and snicker.
It really does feel like I've reached the end of a long chapter in my life, with a new one just ahead of me now, but this past weekend, another kind of long goodbye really grabbed Andy and me.
His mom is slipping away more each time we see her, her language skills all but gone, replaced only by a long line of stuttered words and barely a complete sentence here and there. Her motor skills are very bad too, and she's already fallen down at least twice that I know of in the past four days. The strong woman she's always been is not going gently into that good night either. She's raging against the dying of the light, and I can't say I'm surprised. As long as I've known her, she's been a firecracker, bold and forward, commanding and resilient. Still, it's not easy watching her fight, or watching her loved ones cope with it, but it has reached a breaking point now, and it's hard to say what dramatic changes await us now in the months and days ahead.
Do not go gentle into that good night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas, 1951
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas, 1951
No comments:
Post a Comment