last year's leaf...............

 

     "Is it well with you?" he asked.

     And the old man answered, "It is well."

     "There be wood beside you," the younger man continued, "and the fire burns bright.  The morning is gray and the cold has broken.  It will snow presently.  Even now it is snowing."

     "Ay, even now it is snowing."

     "The tribesmen hurry.  Their bales are heavy, and their bellies flat with lack of feasting.  The trail is long and they travel fast.  I go now.  It is well?"

     "It is well.  I am as a last year's leaf, clinging lightly to the stem.  The first breath that blows, and I fall.  My voice is become like an old woman's.  My eyes no longer show me the way of my feet, and my feet are heavy, and I am tired.  It is well."

     He bowed his head in content till the last noise of the complaining snow had died away, and he knew his son was beyond recall.  Then his hand crept out in haste to the wood.  It alone stood betwixt him and the eternity which yawned upon him.  At last the measure of his life was a handful of faggots.  One by one they would go to feed the fire, and just so, step by step, death would creep upon him.  When the last stick had surrendered up its heat, the frost would begin to gather strength.  First his feet would yield, then his hands; and the numbness would travel slowly, from the extremities to the body.  His head would fall forward upon his knees, and he would rest.  It was easy.  All men must die.

-Jack London, The Law of Life