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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