Span Poem by Rue Palmer

Between the day you're born and the day you die,
you learn the weight of breath
and how a name can be a door.

You fall into light first—
hands not yet knowing how to hold,
heart already beating like it knows
this won't be easy.

Between those days,
you gather moments like loose change:
first love, first loss,
laughter that saves you,
silence that teaches you.

You build and break yourself many times,
mistaking scars for endings,
not knowing they are signatures
of survival.

You learn that time is a river
that never asks permission,
and you learn to swim anyway—
sometimes gracefully,
sometimes just enough.

Between the day you're born and the day you die,
you leave pieces of yourself
in other people's hands,
and carry pieces of them
inside your ribs.

And when the last day comes,
it won't count your years,
your money, or your fear—
only how deeply you loved,
and how honestly you lived
in the space
between.