A Sunday morning tradition I’ve always enjoyed has been to cook brunch, sit with my wife in the dining room facing a window, curtains pulled back and look out at the world as we enjoy the meal. That Sunday was no different, except, maybe, for my state of mind.
Dad is eighty-six. He has only days left in this life. I’ve spent time at his side listening to stories that get increasingly personal as time slips away. I’ve learned more about the man in a week than at any other time in my sixty years. Therefore, it was on my mind. Somehow, I would incorporate those stories into a work of fiction. I figured a cathartic benefit might be in it for me, if for no other reason. That’s when I began to wonder what it is that obligates a person to spill every secret of life when it begins leaching away.
As I ate, two buzzards flew high over our neighborhood and had begun that familiar slow circling flapless descent. It could only mean some creature had lost its life. But, then I thought: Could it be the creature isn’t dead yet? Is it possible that it’s lying on the ground watching death come for it? If so, is it reconciling life, too? These questions born of that view led to a philosophical meandering that held my mind hostage for over half an hour.
That said, it’s only natural I think on the secrets of my own life that I hold. At the moment, none seem important. At best, they’re amusing. At worst, they’d anger or confuse people. So, I leave them tucked away to enjoy, or regret, within my own secret world. Eventually, like the rest of the human race, I’ll be compelled to share them before I die and leave it to the next generation to determine value.
For now, it continues baffling. Everyone that endures a lingering death does it. Why?
Daniel (Danny) Lance Wright
Author of
"Paradise Flawed"/Dream Books LLC/2009
"Six Years' Worth"/Father's Press/2007
"The Last Radiant Heart"/Virtual Tales/Summer 2010
"Anne Bonny, Where Are You?"/Rogue Phoenix Press/May 2010
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