On the day of my death, I won’t remember the three spires protruding from a tuft of orange-yellow strips of dried leaves outside my window. I won’t remember how they sway with the movement if the air and rain before a blue-green juniper. The sky is grey without definition. It is not special.
I will leave my desk to fix a lunch, and hopefully thousands more lunches before that final day. Each lunch I fix, I will be farther and further from the fleeting, swaying spires.