 My
mother often took me with her to the wakes of her fellow teachers and retired
colleagues. I always needed to be lifted up by the armpits to view the
face under the glass because the coffins were too high for me. I liked
to look at the face, always searching for any kind of movement, a twitching
maybe, a quick wink when no one else was looking except me. But the dead
were always really dead and they all shared the same faint chemical smell,
the same pallor that you can't mistake for anything else but the distinct
absence of life. Eventually I started my formal schooling and I was no
longer brought to these things.
------ My blood tastes salty. ------ Sometimes I say things like I wish I was dead, I want to die. But I don't really mean it. It's just talk, and most of the time it's just the hurt talking. I'm not the type who will take his own life no matter how bleak things look or how horribly shattered my world is. Nothing on this world worth that, least of all a broken heart. Tomorrow is always another day. |
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