Death turns life into poetry.

Parenthood is the epitome of the incomplete work, the sculpture, unfinished, ever in the process of becoming that which we love most but do not possess...

For some time now, my son has started to wrestle with my and his own mortality, which in turn has made me come back to the subject, a delicate one. As I lack a religious framework begins with a concept of transformation. There's no doubt in my mind, the fear of death, the ultimate fear, is the mother and father of all others, so I intend to navigate these turbid waters with him gracefully. My intuition tells me that living mindfully makes for a graceful death.