Terminal

She wished

for death.

That would

make it all

so much easier.

For her, for them,

for him.

Her illness was

terminal.

Chemo stopped

doing its job.

She was going

to die.

But they still

held on,

IV cords

tethering her

to reality

when all she wanted

was to fade away.

They held on.

Too scared, too sad,

to let go.

But she was ready.

She was ready to go.

And so one day,

when she woke up

to Death

sitting at her bed,

she wasn't scared.

She was glad.

No more bills,

no more cords,

no more food through

a straw,

no more pain,

no more drugs,

no more wasted time.

But Death looked at her

and said

"In all of your pain,

in all of your strife,

in all of your agony,

you've found the meaning

of life.

You've learned that

it's not about who you are

or what you do.

It's not about the years

you've lived, or

the deeds you've done.

It's about the people you touch,

the people you inspire,

and the ones you love."

And Death reached out to grab

the little girls hand.

And he said:

"Child, do you know

who you've inspired?"

And she did not know.

And he said

"Then I think

it's time

for you to head on back

and inspire someone."

"What do

you mean?"

The girl asked.

"I mean that it's not your time

yet.

There's still time

for you to

inspire someone.

To inject some meaning

into someone's life.

Congratulations,"

Death said.

"Your illness isn't

terminal."