Eat a ripe, ripe peach
How would you live if you knew you only had 37 days left?
Inspired by a writing prompt from the writer Patti Digh, author of 37 Days and originally published in 2008.
Today is my day to die. For 37 days I have lived as I was meant to live. I have overslept, overspent and used up all of the free samples I had been saving for later. I lived these last days without judgment and anger, and my body liked this. I was kind to people who seemed annoyed. I laughed until I cried, and cried until I could see clearly.
I practiced dying by giving up a little of myself every day. I left my possessions where they were needed. My ideas grew bigger and my ego became smaller. I wore color and read whatever people I loved recommended.
Every interaction, every conversation was on purpose and intended for me. If I stumbled and fell, it was because I was meant to learn from the ground up. If I made a mistake, I learned how to do it better next time.
Language expanded without limits. ‘Yes,’ more often than ‘no.’ ‘And’ instead of ‘but.’ And this is a yes and this is a yes, too. Words leapt from me and danced on paper.
I spent most of my time outside because someone was always up for a game of tag or hide-and-go-seek. I ate what tasted good. If someone asked me for money, I gave it. If they needed to be heard, I listened to them.
I was everybody’s mirror, everybody’s open arms. Who could not see themselves in me? Who could not love me, love themselves?
Now, on the last day of my life, I am lying still in my yard just before sunset. A great big tree above attends my last moments. The summer sky is crying colors just for me. My two-year-old daughter scooches closer and squeezes my hand for a moment with her tiny, sticky one. She is eating a ripe, perfect peach with such intensity that I think the rest of the world has disappeared for her.
I sigh and sink into the earth. Death doesn’t come; only peace.
