I am not immortal. I will die one day. My breath will stop coming and my heart rate will flatten. I will have last goodbyes unless my demise is a surprise. My tears won’t come again. All of my worries, pain, and sins will leave this world with me. Like the dinosaurs--I too will have an end. The hands of time will carry my soul gently, as my physical form is lowered six-feet under. Tears will fall down the faces of my loved ones, but the pain won’t last forever. Time will pass and their hearts will move on--just as they should. A new day will come again. Birds will sing, roots will break the soil, and a baby will be born. Years will pass, and eyes will have long been dried. The sun will shine brightly on an old-settled house. Boxes of my life will lay inside. Birthdays, holidays, and other celebrations will symbolize the life I lived. Photo Books, gently handled in laps, of the lives I left behind. Pages will flip and the clock will turn back to, when those birthdays and holidays didn’t sit, dusty--in boxes. To when my eyes didn’t glare--red, from a flashing camera. To when I gently held those lives in my arms, before their arms could hold a book. To when the arguments and teary make-ups weren’t just alive in memories. But all things come to an end. The clock will reset. The boxes will be stored away, the dust will settle, and the sun will set. I will go back to living in the memories of the lives I left behind. The moon will kiss the earth goodnight, and the lights in that--old-settled house will go out.