Death is inevitable. Frightening but true. Death may call upon your house and ask to speak with you. Or he may approach on a sunny day. He’ll introduce himself in a most amiable way. Because there are no boundaries for Death; He takes the young, the old, the blind and the deaf. Death may be hideous, or he may be lovely. He visits the tavern prostitutes and the nuns at the nunnery.

Death can be your friend or your foe. Either way he visits, in the summer’s heat or winter’s snow. Invite him in, or invite him not. He’ll find his way no matter what. You won’t want him, but he’ll want you. There’s no way to hide; do not scurry under a stone. Death will find you in a hurry, and bring you back home. He would be furious, enraged, violent. He’d punish your cowardice and your regret.

So when Death comes to you, don’t be afraid. You’re only dying in the bed that you’ve made. Energy is eternal, so the afterlife must exist. It is what Albert Einstein insisted. And he was a scientifically gifted.

That’s been my theory all along. It could be right, or it could be wrong. Either way it doesn’t matter. It’s just student tavern chatter. We question this and we question that. But where are all of our answers at?

In the bathrooms on the walls, engraved in uneven pencil scrawls. Across the way, in the street, at the place where two main thoroughfares meet. They’re in the faces that pass us by, and in the eyes of an infant who has ceased to cry. In reflections in shop windows on the avenue. In a spot on the sidewalk where grass has grown through. In the tiny insects inside that crawl, and in mankind despite his fall.

 

Copyright Donnell Jeansonne. All rights reserved. Reproduction or duplication whole or in part not permitted without permission and credit to the author.