Imagine sitting around a crackling fire, the night air cool on your skin, and someone asks that very question: "Do you think a person can know when they're going to die?"
A hush falls. The flames dance, casting flickering shadows that seem to whisper secrets. You lean forward, your gaze sweeping over the faces gathered in the firelight.
"Well," you begin, your voice low and thoughtful, "it's like this old story my grandmother used to tell. There was a woman, lived in a small village nestled beside a whispering forest. She wasn't a fortune teller or anything like that, just a regular soul, tending her garden and baking bread that smelled of sunshine."
You pause, letting the image settle in their minds.
"But every now and then, maybe once a year, maybe less, she'd have this feeling. Not a sickness, not a fear, but a quiet knowing. Like the air itself had grown still, and a soft voice, no louder than a butterfly's wing, would brush against her ear. It never said when, exactly. But it carried a sense of... completion. Like a chapter in a long book was drawing to a close."
You look around, making eye contact with a few people.
"She never spoke of these feelings much, kept them tucked away like precious stones. But those who knew her well, they noticed a shift. A certain peacefulness would settle over her. She'd tend to unfinished business, not frantically, but with a quiet intention. She'd mend old fences with neighbors, share stories with her grandchildren, as if savoring every last drop of life."
The fire pops, breaking the silence momentarily.
"Now, did she know the exact day the thread would snap? The hour? The minute? The story never said. But she had these moments, these whispers of the coming stillness. And in those moments, she seemed to live more fully, more intentionally. It wasn't about fear, but about acceptance, about putting her house in order, not just the physical one, but the one within her heart."
You lean back slightly, the firelight illuminating your face.
"So, can a person know? Maybe not with dates and times stamped on their soul. But perhaps... perhaps there are whispers, quiet nudges from the universe, a sense of the seasons turning one last time for us. Maybe it's not about knowing the end, but about recognizing the nearness of a final chapter, and choosing how we live those last pages."
You let the thought hang in the air, the crackling fire the only sound. The question, you realize, isn't really about a definitive answer, but about the mystery of life and the way we sense its delicate boundaries.
#DeathAndDying
No comments:
Post a Comment