Death
"The last grain falls as simply as the first"
The Wound
The hourglass has two bulbs: above, sand that has not yet fallen; below, grains that will never move again. You have been looking in the wrong direction. Life is not the sand that waits, nor the sand that has settled. Life is the single grain in transit, dropping through the irreversible now where potential becomes memory. Death is the final grain making that same passage, falling by the same gravity, indistinguishable from every grain before it.
The Path
You expect the last grain to fall differently – slower, heavier, haloed. You rehearse it, dread it. You imagine it pausing at the throat of the glass, as if gravity might wait for you. But the hourglass makes no distinction. The last grain falls by the same gravity as the first. Its only difference: after, there is nothing. You cannot count the ones above. You cannot sift the ones below. You can only inhabit the fall, the single grain dropping now.
The Shadow
Another stood at the edge of his son's wedding, watching his boy – his boy, somehow a man now – pull his bride close for their first dance. His wife touched his arm. Dance with me. He calculated. The song would end in two minutes. Later, he said. There would be other chances. She wanted Prague – their twentieth anniversary, then twenty-fifth, then thirtieth. The brochure yellowed until the pages stuck. She stopped mentioning it. She never left him. She simply became impossible to reach, and eventually he couldn't remember which of them had moved. The last thing he feels is her hand on his arm, thirty years gone, asking him to dance. ⧫ He watched his daughter blow out five candles. Before he could fix the image – cheeks puffed, light dancing in her eyes – the moment had already become memory. He reached for it. Gone. He stopped facing forward. Only the lower bulb offered stillness: settled sand, grains that had fallen and would stay where they lay. He learnt to live there, rearranging what had dropped and replaying each cascade. His daughter is forty now. She sits beside his bed, holding his hand. Grey at her temples, her mother's voice when she speaks. Her lips move. He cannot hear her. Only old sand, shifting. His fingers loosen in hers. The last thing he sees is a birthday cake, five candles, a small face about to blow.
Epistrophe
The hourglass empties. The last grain falls – the same quiet drop, the same gravity that moved every grain before it. The sand settles. You see it now – from within the shape you made. Each grain in its place: the ones you caught, the ones you wasted, the ones that fell while you were still counting. This is what you were. This is what remains. Light shifts beyond the glass. A hand reaches. The hourglass turns. The sand begins again, having already forgotten. Somewhere, stone meant to crush becomes shelter. Somewhere, a crack in the masonry reveals a single star. Somewhere, the first grain falls—
DEATH
The last grain falls as simply as the first
Death
"The last grain falls as simply as the first"
The Wound
The hourglass has two bulbs: above, sand that has not yet fallen; below, grains that will never move again. You have been looking in the wrong direction. Life is not the sand that waits, nor the sand that has settled. Life is the single grain in transit, dropping through the irreversible now where potential becomes memory. Death is the final grain making that same passage, falling by the same gravity, indistinguishable from every grain before it.
The Path
You expect the last grain to fall differently – slower, heavier, haloed. You rehearse it, dread it. You imagine it pausing at the throat of the glass, as if gravity might wait for you. But the hourglass makes no distinction. The last grain falls by the same gravity as the first. Its only difference: after, there is nothing. You cannot count the ones above. You cannot sift the ones below. You can only inhabit the fall, the single grain dropping now.
The Shadow
Another stood at the edge of his son's wedding, watching his boy – his boy, somehow a man now – pull his bride close for their first dance. His wife touched his arm. Dance with me. He calculated. The song would end in two minutes. Later, he said. There would be other chances. She wanted Prague – their twentieth anniversary, then twenty-fifth, then thirtieth. The brochure yellowed until the pages stuck. She stopped mentioning it. She never left him. She simply became impossible to reach, and eventually he couldn't remember which of them had moved. The last thing he feels is her hand on his arm, thirty years gone, asking him to dance. ⧫ He watched his daughter blow out five candles. Before he could fix the image – cheeks puffed, light dancing in her eyes – the moment had already become memory. He reached for it. Gone. He stopped facing forward. Only the lower bulb offered stillness: settled sand, grains that had fallen and would stay where they lay. He learnt to live there, rearranging what had dropped and replaying each cascade. His daughter is forty now. She sits beside his bed, holding his hand. Grey at her temples, her mother's voice when she speaks. Her lips move. He cannot hear her. Only old sand, shifting. His fingers loosen in hers. The last thing he sees is a birthday cake, five candles, a small face about to blow.
Epistrophe
The hourglass empties. The last grain falls – the same quiet drop, the same gravity that moved every grain before it. The sand settles. You see it now – from within the shape you made. Each grain in its place: the ones you caught, the ones you wasted, the ones that fell while you were still counting. This is what you were. This is what remains. Light shifts beyond the glass. A hand reaches. The hourglass turns. The sand begins again, having already forgotten. Somewhere, stone meant to crush becomes shelter. Somewhere, a crack in the masonry reveals a single star. Somewhere, the first grain falls—