When I was little,

death was a word

I did not understand.

They told me someone had died,

and I thought they had travelled.

Maybe somewhere far.

Maybe they would come back.

Nobody told me

some journeys have no return.

I thought death was for old people.

People with grey hair.

People whose stories were already long.

I was a child.

What did death have to do with me?

Then I grew.

And somewhere between childhood

and becoming who I am,

I understood.

Death means

you don't see them again.

Not tomorrow.

Not next week.

Not when you are ready.

Never.

I began to watch people leave.

Friends.

People I knew.

People I loved.

And every time,

death became a little more real.

It is strange

how one word can be so small

and carry so much pain.

Death.

I am afraid of it.

Not because I think

I can escape it.

I know I cannot.

I am afraid

because there are people

I am not ready to lose.

My parents, first.

I want my father to grow old.

My mother too.

I want them to sit one day

and look at their children

and say,

“See what we have raised.”

I want them to taste

the fruit of their sacrifices.

To see the dreams

they prayed over us become real.

I want to surprise them.

Celebrate them.

Give back to them.

So I pray,

let my parents live long.

Very long.

Then I think of myself.

Yes, myself.

I want to live too.

There are still things I want to do.

Dreams I have not touched.

Promises I have not fulfilled.

A life I am still building.

I am not ready to leave

a story that is still being written.

Then my brothers.

My sisters.

I want us to grow old together.

To sit somewhere someday,

laughing about the children we used to be.

And one of us will say,

“See how far we have come.”

See what we did for Mama.

For Papa.

For the family.

I want that day.

And then my friends.

The people I have laughed with,

suffered with,

made plans with.

The people who carry

pieces of my story.

It scares me

that one day,

one of us could simply be gone.

Because how do you prepare

for someone you still have plans with?

How do you say goodbye

to someone you were still telling,

“We will do this someday”?

Tomorrow is such a confident word.

We say it

as if it belongs to us.

I will call you tomorrow.

I will see you tomorrow.

But tomorrow

has never been a promise.

Only a possibility.

Maybe that is what frightens me most.

Not death itself,

but all the life

that can end before

I am ready to let it go.

The people.

The laughter.

The plans.

The ordinary days

I never thought I would miss.

So I pray.

For my parents.

My siblings.

My friends.

Myself.

May God give us time.

Enough time

to grow old.

Enough time

to become what we dream of becoming.

Enough time

to look back and smile

at how far we came.

Because death does not care

how much you have left to do.

It simply comes.

And perhaps

that is the hardest truth.

We are all living

with an appointment

whose date we do not know.

I know mine will come.

But not yet.

I still have too much love here.

Too many people.

Too many dreams.

Too many tomorrows

I am still hoping to see.

So, God,

not yet.

Let us grow old first.

Let me finish

what I started.

And when my time finally comes,

let it find me

having lived.

Not perfectly.

Not without mistakes.

But fully.

Until then,

I want to live.