Months To Years Winter 2019 Months To Years Winter 2019 - Page 49

Unexpectedly: a miscellaneous tube underneath my flesh explodes while I’m discussing Hockey Night in Canada, then I don’t finish my sentence. Privately: In my pale walled apartment on a neglected street I die alone, except for my faithful dog, still beside me when I begin to decompose. Stupidly: I’m walking home with my groceries, and meet some fool so high he imagines he may be on another planet. His 1991 Datsun airship intersects with Earth at my body, then I get unscheduled take-off, and crash at Space Centre Asphalt. Only my groceries begin orbit. Seven of my eggs break. I’ll never sneak home with that stolen chocolate bar, because I won’t go home. Heroically: I leap into turbulent water to rescue the precious only child of an older couple, but as I hurl the gasping bundle to their embrace, an under-tow rips me into rapids forever more. Damn, I can’t be present for the medal ceremony. Posthumous, sounds like the bin for the potato peels. Peacefully: I become so choked with dementia that I don’t know them, and they don’t know me. I’m someone else. One night I get tired of the whole twisted tangle, and decide I’ll knock off. Like in nurse novels, they call my family, “Quick, we think the time is short.” I die just 5 minutes before they rush in. Peaceful. The papers will say that I died surrounded by loved ones. A small family, that’s fortunate. I have limited sides. Senselessly: When I find no reason or relevance in my world, in some wretched small town I short circuit the system, and jump from the bridge into obscurity. Later, the locals will throw flowers into the river. 49