The idea of death being an ugly, scaly, fire-breathing dragon challenges me to fabricate a shining sword and take on the conquest to try to eradicate this demon from our lives. Staking out a protective bubble around my husband, I thrust and parry until I'm breathless and fatigued.
It is not my fight.
Even when my husband describes his vision of the next experience as 'his next adventure', I want to help by using my sturdy implement to slash the energetic filaments connecting him to this world in an attempt to make his transition quicker and easier.
It is not for me to untie the knots binding him to this life. I can only release my ties to him.
My imaginary sword seems useless until I secure it, warrior-style, in a scabbard along my spine. There my steely blade strengthens my being so I can walk beside him until we part, and I have to go on alone.
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