The Curiosity of an Old Man 

           Curiosity persists even as the horizon narrows. Near the end, it sheds its youthful hunger for novelty and becomes a careful listener, a soft hand on the doorknob of the unknown. The world, once sprawling, gathers itself into essential details: like the way a sunlight beam settles on a windowsill, the hushed traffic of breath in the chest, and the murmurs of those who love you. Questions bloom in smaller, more luminous forms. What will become of my stories when I stop telling them? How does memory loosen its grip? Where does pain end and wonder begin?

          There is fear, yes—a tremor at the edge of the map—but curiosity threads itself through the fear like gold through a crack. It wonders about the shape of absence, about the last taste of coffee, about how a goodbye can carry both grief and gratitude. It is attentive, not morbid; it asks what the body knows, and the mind cannot say. It leans forward into silence as if it were a book about to open.

          Even now, curiosity keeps the heart awake. It studies the tenderness of hands, the courage of laughter, the way love keeps insisting. It wants to know how letting go can feel so much like arriving.