(Happy Halloween–And for you we have a special work by CJA, including wonderful art by his own hand–LA)       

Heard They Died

You heard that Rhonda died. Another Facebook message from your cousin, Sam. You didn’t even know she was sick. Wasn’t there a friend request from Rhonda still flapping in the electronic breezeway that you never accepted? Why was that?

Remember all those years ago, like looking into some bright, hazy kaleidoscope. When you walked with her around the blacktop oval, floating along on one of her pills and her presence. Rhonda smiled her full-faced, dimpled grin and said, “You swing your arms.” Funny how you remember her dimples.

Did Rhonda’s dimples show when she died? Did she make fun of the hospice nurse’s big rear end? And said, “You swing your ass when you walk.”

Why does your cousin always update you on Facebook about who has died? There’s a dread from his contact because he has become the harbinger of death. Still, you are glad to hear from Sam, because he is the only one from “up North” who even knows and barely cares that you are alive.

You haven’t heard his voice in ten years. But what if he is like the others “up North” and you have his intentions all wrong. Is he waiting to tell everyone you died? And who will tell everyone that he died?

The last time on the phone Sam was “Hot” because you didn’t tell him your mother died or about the funeral. But you weren’t on Facebook then, didn’t have his current phone number, and you moved away—you didn’t even know where he lived. You thought your insane brother would notify him, but of course he didn’t. The insane brother was too busy being insane, which makes sense.

This brother refused to have a picture taken with you and the other two siblings, who flew in from the great western states. He claimed something about natives and frozen spirits. But he took a picture of your dead mother in a rented casket at the funeral home, and while tilting his phone so you could see the ghastly picture, said, “You want one?” Now he’s dead too, and he didn’t even have a service—just an online shout-out. You’re not one hundred percent sure the ashes the crematorium mailed to you are his ashes or even human ashes.

Isn’t it sad about the death of classmates or even a one-night stand? You never heard from what’s-her-name again, but you tried. When you got horny and pounded on the door, and she said, “Go away!” What was her damn name? There was no time for names or even a cigarette. Because after you came inside her, you rolled off into your boots, dropped a “Thanks,” and left. Time has changed her name to something watery, like April or May, but not June. You know she is not, June.

How did your cousin know about her?

These deaths remind you that you are only a hash mark between two numbers. Maybe that’s all you’ll ever be. And what of these whispers on the wind, falling leaves, falling stars, dying suns, and dead animals on the road? What have they been telling you—your whole life?

Now it’s time to think of your own impending death. It’s all you really think about, anyway.

There’s a doctor who traded sex for drugs and can’t prescribe narcotics now, but you like him anyway. You say, “I thought you had a beard?” You are always saying things to twist people, so you can be SEEN…

Boiling up from the silent bellows of insignificance, bestowed upon you every day—dying henceforth—unto the funeral parlor’s last parade.

He turns, surprising you with a whirl of his white doctor’s coat. “No, I’ve never had a beard,” as he leaves you with the colonoscopy results.

Out in the parking lot, a family of Canadians stroll by. You know they are Canadians because of the red maple leaf on Mama’s T-shirt. Her babies waddle behind her single-file. Mama honks and hisses at you. Like she should, after all, you are staring, and a human.

“It’s okay, Mama, it’s all good,” but is it? Then it rains, and you are alive.

END

Christopher J Anainas (Including the Artwork)