I wake after only four scant hours of sleep. The inside of my mouth tastes like the smell
of a deer eviscerated by the blunt trauma of a speeding big-rig.
My grandparents are dead.
My parents.
A hole lies beside me where once lay a woman.
I am, therefore, incomplete.
Or complete?
Which?
The night is blue. Deep
blue. The very color of a
blueberry. And cold in the same firm way.
I have been thinking about death again.
Death seems like a pretty bleak reward for living, if you ask me.
If I had my way, ice-cream cones and a noteworthy poem or two
about us would be our reward at the end of our days. And maybe Dad and Grandmother would not have
been so afraid of the end if that were so.
—Mitchell Hegman
I have nothing profound to say other than I read this and it struck a chord.
ReplyDeleteThis pleases me. Often my blogs of this flavor serve mostly to confound many of my friends.
ReplyDeleteI have a pile of pillows where the hole still resides. The pillows don't feel like smooth warm skin at all in the night.
ReplyDelete