The Funeral of My Ego

To be humbled

was to attend the funeral of my ego

to watch the person I believed I was

lowered quietly into the earth.

I learned to walk again

with the trembling legs of a child,

each step a fragile resurrection.

I needed hands to bathe me,

to hold what remained of my dignity

while I stood naked before my own mortality

aged by suffering,

made ancient by pain.

Illness did not only weaken my body;

it tore the veil from my eyes.

It changed my heart,

my vision of the world,

and the meaning of love.

Those who swore they would always remain

became ghosts before I ever did.

And those who stayed

who held me when I could not hold myself

became the sacred proof

that even after the death of who I was,

I was still worthy of being loved.