A Confession

I turn nineteen on the twenty-first of June, and I am scared of death.

Some fear of nothingness afterward. But I am saved, and I know this isn’t what awaits.

Some fear leaving behind their mothers and sisters. But life is short, and I’ll see mine soon.

Myself…I fear its permanence, as I’ve never been exceptional when it comes to commitment.

I still have yet to see which territory will win the war in my head—who will decide my career: House of Medicine, Writers, or one of the lesser lords joining the fight in hopes that one of the others will fall. I still have not married or adopted children. I still do not know if I will find friendship that lasts.

So much to give myself to.

I am so young, but I am so very afraid of death.

I can only hope what it will be like, as hoping for its prevention is futile.

I hope it doesn’t hurt.

I hope I don’t recognize it or realize it’s coming.

I hope that it’s like being carried from the car to your bed when you fall asleep as a child, embracing and gentle. And when you’re under the covers and the light is flicked off, you can still hear everyone’s muffled voices talking and laughing through the wall.

I hope I learn to stop thinking about it; I don’t want to waste every second of my life fearing about how one day, I won’t have one.

Please, Death, put your training to use. I don’t want to see your face. Come quick as wind and silent as snow.

I think I’d like to be smiling when you arrive.