Forty-Fifth Paradox Writing

Death still hasn’t learned his lesson.

This is the second time this year,

he’s tried to fight me.

Sometimes he comes armed with a scythe

sometimes with a breathing machine,

and feeding tubes,

but I know I scared him away;

I know he’s a coward.

He never allows his opponent to live long

enough to defeat him.

Some spouses squabble over life-insurance, others cash and jewels. Oddly, we had those all worked out. We had more dire issues to deal with in our marriage. I had to take drastic measures; I didn’t have time to see a marriage counselor.

I tried running upstairs to quell my rage. Over and over again I washed my hands, trying to think about happier things: pink roses on our first date, warmth in our first kiss. Still, all I could think about was how he had insulted my taste.

And so I went down to the kitchen where he washed the dishes, the very fine china he had insisted eating fast food with. I grabbed one of the steak knives he had just washed, turned it in my hand, and watched him die. He shouldn’t have insulted my taste in tacos.

“I’m sorry Mr. Death, but Penny Jacobs isn’t in that room anymore.” Her eyes, brimming with innocence, stared back at his empty ones.

“Then who is?” Mr. Death sighed, smoothing his pale hair back. He could feel in his hands where this headed.

The nurse glanced at the open binder on her desk. “Pam Jacobs.  Completely different person Penny’s family says.”

Mr. Death, or Al, as he preferred to be called, rubbed his face wearily. (Angel O. Death tended to give people the wrong impression.) “You’re absolutely sure?”

The nurse twirled a blonde curl in her hand. “Absolutely.”

“Alright.” She half expected him to sigh in defeat, but he almost looked relieved. “You said there was somebody I should see in room 50?”

She flipped through her notebook, sliding her finger down to the appropriate name. “Yep, that’s the one.”

“Thank you.” As Al left, the nurse swore she saw his shadow linger longer than the others.

Waiting until Angel O. Death vanished around the corner, the nurse headed to “Pam” Jacobs room. The nurse sat in the chair next to the hospital bed and whispered “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but your husband was right.’

We marched for Cambyses;

We marched to the oracle;

We marched to take her down;

We marched to cast her into the sand;

We marched to bury her body  in the sand,

to the place we would all return.

_________________

We marched for Cambyses;

We marched for the son of Cyrus;

We marched for the King of Persia;

We marched to make him and his advisors proud;

We marched to be remembered above all Persian armies;

We marched to be remembered beyond the sand,

the place we would soon return.

______________

We marched to be lost;

We marched to be found;

We marched to leave arrowheads and silver bracelets;

We marched to leave a thousand skulls grinning at the sky;

We marched into the sand;

We marched into the sand,

and to sand we returned.

If my best friend died,

I would run to the other end of town

and back, until the soles of my shoes

became my feet and my shirt melted into my skin.

I would burn every calorie of every piece of

chocolate I ever ate while discussing

PMS with him.

I would go to Gov Cup and order a chai tea

and try every flavor in single shots in different cups.

I would flirt with the barista as if to

cheat on our relationship that never happened because

we would end up killing each other.

I would write a poem where every line was an inside joke,

and all the words would be five syllables long

and only be found in the OED.

I would shout utterly vulgar phrases from the bus stop,

(but only in Greek, Spanish, and Russian.)

I would stay up late with his other best friend and say

absolutely nothing.

Because my ashen clothing,

my decreasing chocolate supply,

my counter-top full of espresso shots,

my affair with the barista,

my tirade at the bus stop,

even my inside joke of a poem

would fail him.

The mayor met with the coroner

On the morn, after the night.

“Dear Coroner! I’ve heard the most distressing news!

It seems one out of one people die!”

The coroner frowned, glancing almost guiltily at the casket next to him.

“It’s true, Mr. Mayor, but I’m afraid I can’t do much about it.

I bury people. I don’t raise them from the dead.”

The mayor’s eyes on the mayor’s head stretched like the ripples from a raindrop.

“But coroner! Can’t you prevent them from dying?”

The corner frowned, sadly, regretfully, like he had just killed a kitten.

“I’m afraid not.

Even if I could, wouldn’t that put me out of a job?”

The mayor quirked his head like a dial on a clock.

“I suppose you’re right, Coroner.

We’ll just have to let them die as usual.”

When does the heart stop longing? When it falls in love? But when we fall in love our hearts long more for that special someone, and in some cases grow cold and long for someone else. Does it stop when we find a job, a bonus, a pay raise? Or do we just long for more money, and more jobs, and more time? Does it stop longing when the world becomes a perfect place? Or does it long for pain to make comfort a reality?

Does it stop longing when we fill it with drugs, alcohol, self-injury, and self-harm? Or does it long more, because it cries for a cure?

When does the heart stop longing? When it dies? Or do we long for more time, and more chances?

It’s not easy being the woman that all my children have come to hate. They may not think it outright, but I can see it in their eyes, and their clenched jaws. I don’t really blame them; I’m part of the reason they’re miserable. My mistake and its consequences have continued to echo throughout mortality, in my children and my children’s children.

I suppose I should just let it go, I can’t do much about it now. That’s the thing about guilt though, it seeps into the cracks of my mind and heart and it doesn’t let go. It still won’t let go of that forbidden fruit I ate, even after it turned to ash in my mouth. Even now, I can still taste it: Death.

I’ll still say, long after my physical end, that it wasn’t completely my fault. I doubt anyone will believe me to be anything but I wasn’t the only one who ate it. God cursed him too, so not all of it comes from me. Sometimes I find it hard to believe I’m cursed for believing a lie, when I knew it wasn’t the truth in the first place.

I never could forget those moments

Below the sound of gun fire

And the roar of planes overhead.

Sometimes I wish I could,

So I wouldn’t be obligated to share them.

But now my time is drawing near,

And I’m being called home from the battlefield in my mind.

It’s time to put down my guns, my gear, and my baggage,

And write the letter my hand would never let me write.

It’s time to tell my story, before I become another casualty.

We all gathered round and stared at the matching sets of wood, fastened together. The pastor talked about their strong, grounded marriage, with love that overflowed. In the outpouring we smelled something sinister, but we didn’t dare speak ill of the dead.

Could the dead hear our thoughts, over the wailing and the tears? Could they hear us over the loss, the hum of the reporters next door? Could they hear the whispers of the children, the needy children, the children left alone? Could they hear it through the two caskets lined with velvet? Could they hear the questions, and the scrutiny?

Something told me they couldn’t hear a thing. It wasn’t the satin lining. It wasn’t the white-noised whispers. It wasn’t the buzz of the reporters next door. It wasn’t even the wood bound firmly together. It was death. The Grim Reaper himself had covered their ears.