The Story of Me

Like I’ve said, the story I’d most like to see finished is the one where I come to a natural and satisfactory end.

That, however, did not happen.  And for that, I feel deep regret and sadness.

That I lived my life ever aiming forward, that I fought and flailed and tried and failed, gives me a glimmer of gratification, but certainly not fulfillment.  For that, fulfillment, comes with completion and there was much I did not complete.  And here in the inky, foggy blackness, my insides ache to do still more, for there was more needed doing.

I needed to speak to my sister Pidge, I’d so many questions, about having babies, about completing a degree, about being so highfaluting and accomplished and yet still be my faithful sidekick and cheerleader.

I needed to speak to my husband George, wondering if he made any real money on my posthumous biography, darn him.

I needed to speak to my co-pilot Flighty Fred, curious if he saw the same anomalies I did during those last tormented and hectic minutes airborne and aloft.

And did he see the same black void rise up to meet him upon the cessation of our not yet historic adventure.

I’d much to do, as much needed doing.

But I’ll never regret, not once, I took a chance.



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