Without Succor

If my car was ninety years old, I would have thrown it away a long time ago.

She speaks nonchalantly as she appraises the wrinkles that bunch together on the back of her hand and collect at the base of her knuckles.  The skin hangs from her once muscular biceps.  She is neither bitter nor sad.  Acceptance oozes from her brow like the drops of sweat that collected during her labored walk into the office.  She is tired.

We talk of her shortness of breath.  Even as I offer a plethora of tests to draw back nature's curtain,  she shakes her head quietly.  For her, the betrayal of the body is simply the unassailable progression of tempermant.  She would no more try to fight it, than attempt to manually disassemble the second hand of a clock. 

Time passes regardless of whether it is measured. 

She will slip away delicately.  Inch by inch, pound by pound she will succumb without succor.  There will be no protestations, and no proclamations.  One day the phone will ring and I will be informed that she is gone.  Likely, found cold in her bed by a neighbor who noticed the mail piling unnaturally at the front door.

And as she hobbles out of the office, I can't help but think there is some important lesson to be learned.  Why do some die angry, regretful deaths while others pass gently without fanfare? 

It is said that we die as we live.

And we live as we die.