Hospice   There ought to be a word for it — the faint glow of dying as the tide of life runs out, a silvery shimmer. It’s not sainthood,   not a halo, but the holiness of life laid bare, what Whitman called the main things, nothing left to boast of or confess,   just the world’s stunned quietude when the sun is sinking into night, light’s last caress. Who is dying? All of us. Everyone.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont May 2026