Monday, March 11, 2013

David Green Dies 6 and ½ Times (#6)


6.  David Green was dying and there wasn’t anything anyone could do.  He walked out into the street, the medical report in one hand, yesterday’s New York Times in the other.  He carried them like twin diagnoses, equally fatal.  One, an old newspaper, the symbol of time lost never to be regained.  The other, the blood report and CAT scan results, the physical embodiment of time that remained.  After contemplating, from time to time, the day of his death, speculating if it was close or far away, suddenly it was here, like an unwanted house guest.  The date of his death had been plucked from the shadow of potential and shoved into the harsh light of the actual.  He fell asleep on his bed, in his clothes, the medical report on one side of him, yesterday’s New York Times spread over him like a blanket, and his sleep was akin to death, its first cousin, so when David Green died a month later, he greeted death like a relative.  He felt that half of him had died already; he simply needs to surrender that stubborn other half…

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