Human, corpse, skeleton, dust: I think that’s how it goes.
Work keeps me busy; I usually take lunch at my desk or between classes, but occasionally I treat myself and eat lunch at the cemetery. I like to sit on this bench in the shade of a scraggly palm tree, by the grave of Jack Haley, the guy who played the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, or was he the Scarecrow? He’s just one of many actors buried at Holy Cross, names you would recognize and others who might have been well known in their day, like Sarah Allgood or Mona Darkfeather, but have since been forgotten.
I like to sit here—I mean there—and think about all sorts of things and well, one thing in particular.
That subject whose contemplation separates us from all the other clawed and declawed animals. A subject that eludes us: if you’re not careful you could spend your entire life trying to catch the drift of death, scratching your head, until your scalp’s all bloody. Until the day comes when your breathing stops and green fluids start to trickle out of your mouth and nostrils via the lungs.
But that’s okay with me. You see, my mind has this nasty little habit of wandering, flying out of my body like a witch on a broomstick, clutching the handle with her thighs for dear life, but death gives me a purpose, a sense of direction. Death keeps me focused.