Months To Years Winter 2019 Months To Years Winter 2019 - Page 51

A Small Death By Carol L. Gloor Some deaths are massive, huge trees falling, marked “Management.” Layers of clothes hung dragging down the brush around them, leaving neatly from pegs; pans balanced perfectly on their deep holes: Bobby Kennedy, Nelson Mandela, even counter, and the way up to the sleeping loft was John Lennon. Most deaths are at least noticed, like a ladder. I knew Sue had an unnamed digestive your grandfather’s: an old oak no longer there for ailment which caused her to puke without notice, shade. There’s a lunch afterwards where you see sometimes for hours, until nothing was left. When I the cousins you knew as kids, drink too much, tell asked her, the answer was always that they didn’t stories, drive away somehow satisfied: he had a know, more tests were being done. But the puking long, good life; he didn’t suffer; we all knew it was was under control that first Memorial Day with coming. But a few deaths are like Sue’s: a ripple them, pizza on their porch, bloody marys, and in a small stream, leaving those standing on the boxed white wine in paper cups. All that was left bank startled, with no place to declare their love, in the mosquito midnight were empty pizza boxes, no ritual to celebrate their mourning. empty wine boxes and empty bottles of vodka gleaming in moonlight. It all tasted wonderful. Sue Sue and Dave managed a tourist cabin resort said “It’s a red, white and blue holiday: red bloody in the small town in northwest Illinois, above the marys, white wine, I just couldn’t figure out the Mississippi River, where we moved from the city, blue.” I forgot to mention there was a blue vodka like them, to stop working so hard. They lived a you could buy. crowded life in one of the cabins, behind the sign 51