It is fifty years from now. I lay on what I hope is my death bed. The shriveled, spotted feet poking out from the sheets look unfamiliar. I know that if I had a mirror the rest of me would look equally alien. A memory of a novelty greeting card a friend had given me once upon a time springs up. A cute cartoon kitten playing with a ball of yarn saying in comic sans Your body will turn to shit long before you die. My daughter comes in to see how I am doing. I try to tell her that we didnt name her after her moms aunt, but after a dog I had in my twenties. A play on the we named the dog Indiana line Sean Connery says in Last Crusade. What comes out is a mishmash of sounds I have no control over. I love you too, Dad. she says, kissing my forehead. While I admit the gesture is sweet, I am still indignant over my inability to deliver even the simplest of jokes these days. My daughter sits with me for a few minutes in silence, and then the room starts to go dark. I assume I am dying, and I think she does as well, because she begins to cry. Quietly I succumb to what I think is deaths casual embrace. Moments later I am confusing a dream about the Picards Flute episode of TNG for Heaven and am incredibly disappointed.
Posted on: Wed, 12 Nov 2014 17:36:58 +0000
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