If we live long enough, everyone will at some point have someone transition out of their life. Sure, almost everyone uses the word “die,” and the companion word “death” when speaking of such transitions, but it seems to me that “transitioning” is a far better and more accurate word. For those who cannot imagine an ongoing existence following this one (and if this is all we get, what with the disparity between the most affluent and the most wanting, based on outwardness alone, I can only hope you were able to enjoy the life of the affluent during your brief stay), I can still hope that you’ll transition into accepting whatever lies ahead for you. For all the rest of us, although we probably would have appreciated enough of that affluence to ease many a burden along the way, we know there is a whole different ballgame, so to speak, awaiting us. And the price of admission to that “ballgame” has nothing to do with how much we end up with in our pockets or in the bank. Transitioning is just part of life, and something that we can look forward to when we’re in that final inning, and it’s our last time up at bat. My uncle, who just transitioned this very week, inspired this poem. Did he feel his life was worth living? Well, he married the love of his life and was foster parent to 20 children. I’ll let you decide.
 

I do so enjoy having you drop in to read my weekly poem.