About quiet promises

Patricija is counting.
After checking what the two numbers carved on the tombstones mean, she loudly announces the “results”:

Here 90, over there 95, here less luck 87—
she’s reciting the years lived by people now at rest.

Suddenly she stops.

It’s obvious she’s recounting:

“20?”

“Mom, is this not a mistake?” she pokes with her little finger.

“No mistake…” I sigh.

“So young people just die, and they bring them here, and bury them like the old ones?”

I nod in agreement, explaining that against incurable illnesses and accidents, we’re all equal.

“If it’s impossible not to die at all, I’d like to die really old,” she finally says.

“I’ll do my best,” I quietly promise.

And she hugs me very tightly.
Squeezing my hands, it seems she also squeezes my heart.

Let’s hug in our thoughts the loved ones who have gone,
And hold close those who must stay here.
No exceptions.

Mua,
V.