The tragic death of stage and screen actress Natasha Richardson, at age 45, wife and mother of two, after what seemed a minor fall during a skiing lesson, comes as a reminder to us all that not a single one of us is guaranteed anything… anything… including that we, or anyone or anything else, will be here in an hour, let alone a day, a week, a year, a decade…
Ms. Richardson certainly enjoyed a full and rich life, which in the end, is all any of us can really aspire to, even if, sadly in her case, it was cut tragically short.
R.I.P., Ms. Richardson.
And for the rest of us who might be living on or traveling to “Someday Isle,” I will simply repeat: there is no assurance that the boat will ever get there…
tdog
Next, Please
Always too eager for the future, we
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; every day
Till then we say,
Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear
Sparkling armada of promises draw near.
How slow they are! And how much time they waste,
Refusing to make haste!
Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks
Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks
Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked,
Each rope distinct,
Flagged, and the figurehead with its golden tits
Arching our way, it never anchors; it’s
No sooner present than it turns to past.
Right to the last
We think each one will heave to and unload
All good into our lives, all we are owed
For waiting so devoutly and so long.
But we are wrong:
Only one ship is seeking us, a black-
Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back
A huge and birdless silence. In her wake
No waters breed or break.
Phillip Larkin