Every negative is a loss
of hope, of possibility, of barriers.
I once thought that
the wall between myself and my own mortality was struck down
24 years ago,
when my mother died.
The wreckage of that wall further destroyed
20 years ago,
when my father died.
The wall now turns to dust
as I watch my brother waste away.
I did not see then
that there was a wall that had not yet fallen.
The wall that still stood
as a barrier between me and my own mortality.
A second wall
that held something atop it.
to live on
through a child.
Every negative chips away at that second wall,
that wall I had not noticed until recently
but that was always there.
Every month it is harder to look.
The wall is less inviting,
more reminiscent of the other wall,
the one that fell decades ago.
Why should it stand?
It might be easier
to place dynamite at its foundation
and do what I know will happen anyway,
speed its fall,
with my own fingers.
Pressing the button
at least I would be in control.