I dream now of youth, and memory holds my mind to better, freer days, when a chill did not bind me to my bed for days, when I could work among the unfortunate of the city, and the most painful and more vivid of my memories would stay submerged below the waves of demands, thoughts, and compassion that stirred the surface of my mind, hidden from me by my own haste and  the care of others who could not care for themselves.  Peace of my own creation is beyond my reach, now,  but that peace was always hard won, and easily lost, the exhaustion of physical labors tiring me, but alas, when I would sleep, the submerged and not yet forgotten memories would surge to the surface,  tormenting me with the shapes, sounds, and loves of time long lost, making my dreams a harder cross to bear than my labors of sympathy in the slums. And so, when younger and stronger methods of earned peace are gone, and I must make true peace with my ghosts, before I join them, behind the pearl veil drawn between us. And I must not delay, for even as the sun sets behind my daughters head,  forming a halo made of light and beauty around her, the feel of the warm light plays across my face, echoing my own life's sunset, and time is running out for me.
And I must earn my final peace. The peace that will keep me warm in my grave, but will tear my still living heart from me.