. I don't know why I think things will get better. I'm always holding on to flimsy hope. I've held it since I was a young go-getter before the downward slope. Is wishful thinking printed on our genes? Before we crawl, has nature made it so? To want things right by any and all means? I don't presume to know. Or did my mother give this curse to me? No turn I did was ever good enough. She'd say, and this is not hyperbole, "You're made of better stuff." Or was it God that stamped it on my soul and left me unfulfilled and wanting more? There is a place where I can never stroll, on Eden's ancient floor. A few more days in bed; it won't be long. To shroud the hospice's incessant hum I'll raise the volume on Sinatra's song, “The Best Is Yet To Come.” . . Geoffrey Smagacz writes from South Carolina and Mexico. A collection of his fiction, published under the title of A Waste of Shame and Other Sad Tales of the Appalachian Foothills (Wiseblood Books, 2013), won the 2014 Independent Publisher gold medal for Best Mid-Atlantic Regional Fiction. His rhymed and metered poetry has also been published in various literary magazines and e-zines, including 14 by 14 and Dappled Things.