Death is such a passing thing. It comes and goes like a cold, leaving germs of life in its wake.
Something always remains. If not me, at least this scrap of flowered cloth, torn from a grandmother's dress. She too is gone. But something has remained. This table has remained, made of wood, which lasts at least a few hundred years, and sometimes even petrifies its corpse into a rock (a new element, you could say, and no longer a corpse). They call this reincarnation.
My brother was gleeful to tell me that we all die- I was probably 7. I was gleeful to tell him I would be the only exception. Every lie contains a truth. We must accept that we will be evicted from this body, and soon (it is always soon). We must trust that our bodies will be offered like a sacrifice for hungry new lives. We die to make room (making room is called humility). We trust that our spirits too, will be recycled, woven into the fabric of sky, becoming milk for tired bones, like this anemic winter light.