Nearly thirty years ago, my father died strangely. He fell instantly dead while walking through an airport concourse in Honolulu, Hawaii, on his way to a gate where a jet bound for the mainland waited.
His heart had ruptured, and he quietly collapsed,
melting to the floor like hot wax. A crowd gathered around him as a distant jet
rumbled into the air. I always imagine another jet landing, thrusting into
reverse shrouds as more people collected around him.
Dad detested crowds. He hated probing questions and
commitments. But death is the ultimate commitment, and you cannot question a
crowd gathering around it.
My father had traveled to Hawaii for alternative
lung cancer treatments. Hydrogen peroxide was the cure for his terminal cancer,
something on the fringe just enough to both attract and please my father. I
don’t know the details of that. But bravo, he did beat the cancer to the quick
by having a heart attack first. Nearly a day later, his suitcase found its way
to Spokane, where it circled too long at baggage claim.
—Mitchell Hegman
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