In this quiet hospice hallway, where slippers shuffle slow, lie rehearsing my finale— the closing act of my life’s show.
The nurses whisper kindly, as if sound might make me crack; they tiptoe like I’m porcelain with a fragile, final soundtrack.
My body’s filing complaints now— every joint a union strike; my lungs negotiate each breath like they’re choosing when to hike.
The doctor says I’m “comfortable", which is code for nearly gone; chuckle at the euphemism— death’s PR team marches on.
Friends visit with soft voices, as if I’m already half in mist; they pat my hand like a relic and check “farewell” off their list.
But I’ve not fully vanished— still gossip with the moon; still argue with my memories and hum my favourite tune.
Yes, sorrow sits beside me, a roommate I didn’t choose; but satire keeps me company— it refuses to let me lose.
And hope? It’s here too, oddly cheerful, like a child with crayons bright; it sketches dawn on my window even as I fade toward night.
So, if this is my last chapter, let it end with a wink, not dread— for I’ve heard the next room is lovely and the view there spectacular once you’re no longer afraid to tread.
