The first time I recognized mortality was when my grandfather died, I think. I was 8, 9 or 10. We had been visiting him at the hospital for a few months, and one day when we got to the hospital, I saw other people gathered outside his room. I was told to go inside to see him. He was spitting blood and looked tired, but retained his dignity and strength that I had always known. Later that day, at the grandparents’ house where we were staying, I was told that he passed. At the funeral, I saw my mother, aunts and grandmother crying uncontrollably, and it frightened me. Many times, adults came up to me and told me that he had loved me. I could not fathom life or death but gradually realized that I would not see him anymore.
I still don’t understand or grasp life but have since seen many deaths.
I have attended funerals, visited the dying and seen carcasses (fallen baby birds, poisoned mice, boars and mongoose killed on the road), and know that I will one day join the clan of deceased. Death is the end of this enigmatic journey, life. That is certain.
My doctor tells me that I am pre-diabetic, and my cholesterol level is up. To live a long and healthy life, I should not eat sweets, rice, bread, pasta or fried food.
Is it wrong of me to prefer living to prolonging?
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Finite Creatures.”
“At what age did you realize you were not immortal? How did you react to that discovery?”