Sat on my cushion today. Flickers were picking at the ground. A flock of flickers. Five. Pecking for bugs. Right outside my window. A reflection of my mind. Survival. Eating. Very busy. Digging with intensity. Strong beaks. Peck, peck, peck.
Wishing the drive for survival was easier.The birds were in the shade of trees. Their markings, like the shadows or autumn leaves, allowed them to search without the crying hawk in the distance bothering them. So, they've got something going for them.
The breath. I am breathing. The repetitiveness of the news seems stuck on crazy, sucking the life out of me. No wonder our kids are fascinated with zombies.
Can you imagine the moment when the breath ends? Perhaps a crushing pressure from a heart attack or asthma attack or an earth quake's final blow as buildings collapse? Or as prisoners in secret detention camps, who live daily with death defying moments pushing down on them, drowning them?
We just don't know what we are doing. We just think we do.
Our bodies live in a zone where life goes on until it stops.
Dead is dead is what I thought with certainty as I sat across from my father's dead body. Not Dad is dead. What the hell?
Finally was another thought. You always talked about death. But after 76 years on earth, it finally happened.
Don't you bother me, I silently threatened his dead body. Yet three months after dead is dead, you showed up in my dreams like you did in life with a sinus infection and strong coffee on your breath. His signature blend of the living and the dead.
I think I almost prefer the scent of pure death and it's finality.
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