She was The End

On that last day she didn’t get out of her button-through or her slacks.
Coming across the threshold of the door her feet stayed in her shoes and the
Worn grey nightshirt in the drawer stayed where it lay. There was a feeling of clarity
That pulled with more force than the need to escape and be far from this place.

Instead it was the temptation to sink down and to suffocate and to writhe underneath the shadows.
To allow it all to fold in on her and let the indignity have way. To give in.
They came quickly, those flickering beasts in the fading light, they didn’t offer warning,
Though she hadn’t hated them for that; they were much too glassy to be held accountable.

The hardest day in September had started with sweet peas on the morning air.
In the final moments, she saw her own hands in front of her, concern and entanglement drifting up from her finger tips.
It disappeared before her eyes as if nothing had ever really been concrete or anchoring or true.
It was the enviable weightlessness of release.

Water in her lungs but no snares caught on her heart. She was free; a fish in the stream.
There was no beat of her heart.
There was no hitch in her breath.
There was no more anything.

She met her creator.