Impart

I hope that one day I’ll be wise, walk slowly through the trees, and listen to the breeze as it bustles leaves upon the path, clearing way for another truth that took a lifetime to muster.

It hits me, with simple, clear conviction, putting a stutter in my stride, but nothing more dramatic than that; a wry smile, and a small shake of the head. “Where have you been?” I say, aloud.

I must get home. I’m burning up! I am a man who holds a great secret; for that is what truth is before freed, before having the chance to pass it on. I’m desperate to, and I’m terrified of my death finding out before I’ve even had the chance to write it down.

Suddenly, I feel so mortal – eating spaghetti in an expensive shirt, red sauce and chinos; I’m fixated on the threatening stains, making them ever more likely, of course, like swerving into the headlights of oncoming traffic, like becoming weak-kneed or unstable as you peer over a sheer cliff.

I faced death many times on the way. I greeted them each, politely, with a tip of my hat, never slowing down or holding their gaze, for fear they’d engage me in conversation; that’s how they get you. I’m sure of it. “Haven’t you had enough yet?” they say, an outstretched hand beckons. “Come; it’s time.”