The Day I Died

The day I died, my atoms began to slough away, in groups of molecules. Some assisted by bacteria, others by little bugs, still others by the gentle roots of plants, and some simply by the wind that carried them into infinity.

The day I died, a phospholipid that had spent its life in me guarding the lining of my intestines was eaten by a bacterium. It was after the cell had apoptosed and its remains were an offering for those that still carried on.  That bacterium enjoyed the meal greatly, eating sugars with abandon.  

The day I died, a root tickled my nose, asking kindly if I were done with the fluid in my eye. It absorbed my sustenance, feeding it up toward green leaves photosynthesizing above. They enjoyed their drink and offered gratitude in a bright display of petals for the newly sprung spring.

The day I died, a worm cosied up to my lips. There were decaying juices, the last rites of dying cells, and it offered its solemnity in response. It took what was presented and grew stronger and haler. It gave life to ten little eggs which hatched into ten tiny little worms, whose lust for experience could barely be contained by the soil they inhabited.   

The day I died, an epidermal cell was caught by the wind. It danced in the breeze and met dizzying heights. It laughed its way into the upper echelons of the atmosphere where, bit by bit, its pieces were plucked away. Some were precipitated in a drizzle of rain. Some coated the sand of a waving desert. Some were caught in an inhale of expanding lungs.

The day I died, I became a thousand new things. I died, but I lived.