We all are, really.
It is a slow-moving line,
A shuffle of bodies along a crowded street.
But it is a constant pace, a steady march.
A conveyor belt of people,
A transit of prisoners,
All with the same destination.
I want to escape it.
I want to push back against the surging mob And turn around.
So many deeds have been left undone.
So many words have been left unsaid.
The clock is ticking,
And my time is waning.
But I cannot move back,
Only forward.
The frustration of it is maddening.
All I can do is look over my shoulder
At the meager accomplishments I have managed:
A flower crown made by pudgy hands,
Sloppy drawings in marker and crayon,
Faded photographs of a family at the beach,
A report card filled with A’s and B’s.
I can feel the satin of a prom dress
Brushing against my knees,
I can see the ghost of a tassel,
Flickering in and out of sight.
I hear the music
That was once the greatest in the world.
I smell the grease
From the burger joint where I used to work.
And sweet kisses dot the images.
A couple’s laughter echoes through the memories.
And I see me,
And him,
And a wedding, and flowers, and cake,
And two children running in a yard,
Making flower crowns with their own pudgy hands,
Drawing sloppy pictures in marker and crayon.
I could of, I should of, if only I had.
They are whispers of a kindling flame,
That will never be.
I didn’t make the mark I had always strived to set.
I didn’t imprint myself on this Earth the way I had once hoped.
Childhood dreams have yet to be achieved.
But it’s alright now.
Because as I look at the world,
And see the role I have played,
I realize I have accomplished enough already.
I have loved and been loved,
And have achieved the ultimate goal,
Of creating new life.
Let my children undertake
The few things I have yet to have done.
Let my husband oversee
The projects I have left unfinished.
And let them continue on without me,
Not out of sadness,
But out of the joy
That I had been able to make
So many precious memories with them.
The clock is still ticking.
And my time is nearly gone.
But I don’t care much anymore.
I’ve made my dent on this weather-worn Earth,
And that’s all the matters.
--Sarah B., 16
