The agave does not rush. It does not clamor for attention. It has no need for applause.
Its leaves, thick and deliberate, curve outward like a gesture of quiet generosity. Each one holds the memory of sunrises endured, storms outlasted, and the long arithmetic of drought.
It will bloom once. And when it does, it will do so without fanfare—no press release, no curated lighting. Just a single, towering stalk, rising like a final sentence in a well-lived paragraph.
And then, it will die.
But this is not tragedy. This is design.
To give everything, once. To know when enough is enough.
As I finish my scotch—peaty, with a hint of smoke—I find myself oddly comforted.
The agave does not fear its ending. It has already fulfilled its purpose.
And in that, there is grace.
Not the kind found in cathedrals or symphonies. But the kind that lives in dry soil, in patient growth, in the quiet dignity of a life well spent.”
 
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