Like Diggy Died

Hello Dear Ones! I am sitting at a window, contemplating a recent loss, and I found this draft in my journal, inspired by a quote from a Rumi poem: “Death is a coming together.”

The best way, if I get to choose, is the way Diggy died:

Keeled over while running up a hill after something.

He died engaged in the pursuit, the bright outdoors,

the feeling of grass on his low belly,

being exactly what he was meant to be.

A dog in the sun,

well-fed and beloved, chasing something halfway up the hill,

the sun on his dark fur, movement of his short legs,

then nothing nothing nothing.

Or, perhaps like Granny M,

asleep in her own bed after a family wedding,

having touched all her rarely seen grandchildren,

her heart failed her, they said.

I say: her heart

knew her so well is gave her the perfect death.