Death gives me the finger

imagesCAJ1VH50Here’s the latest sample of what I call my  death-dreams—they like to pop in every so often.

In this one I’m standing in a funeral home looking at coffins. At the far end of the room one coffin is open. I want to look inside it but I don’t want to look inside it. What if a body is in it?  What if the body is me?

Whoa . . . no thanks.

Suddenly I’m walking along a road. Both sides of the road are lined with vivid chicory flowers which tells me it’s summer yet I’m shivering. I look down the road. There is big thick fog swallowing up the ground as it gets closer. It’s the same shade as old underwear. As I get closer I notice something sticking out of it. It’s a long, bony hand and one finger is beckoning me inside.  I know it’s Death because there’s no meat on the hand. Just pure white bone.

“I’ve been waiting for you” Death tells me.

Well, it’s like the coffin scene again—I’m not sure what to do. If I go into the fog I’m done. Pfffft—dead.  But I feel the freedom it’s offering me. Goodbye stress. Ta-ra worries. Just me beneath all this baggage taking the next road out. I’m warming to the finger.

I notice a big red easel beside me, just beyond the chicory flowers. There’s a white board on it. Written on it are the words Suicide is like leaving the theater before the movie is over.

I nod my head and say, “I know. I heard that somewhere else. But I’m not—Death invited me.” I tell the board. There’s a marker laying by the easel so I erase the words and write, “What happens if the movie stinks?  Why not try another show?”  I sit down to wait for an answer and as I wait I feel the cold creeping in again. I look down. The boney hand is on my lap and it’s pinching my leg.  Fog is twirling around my shoulders and suddenly it doesn’t feel so nice. I realize I don’t want to die and I start punching at the fog and the hand.

I guess that’s when I nailed Man-Wonder. He came awake with a loud yelp which woke me up too.

“What the hell was that for?” He rolls over and punches his pillow into a better shape.

“I’m sorry. Death was trying to take me away. I didn’t want to go.”

“You always have to argue don’t you. Just once couldn’t you go quietly?”

Lucky for him he was asleep before I realized what he said.

Before I fell back asleep myself I thought about my death-dreams and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s one of two things: Either Death is having fun with me, or the stress of looking after Mom needs an outlet.

What I am sure of is that I have no intentions on leaving any time soon. This stage of my life may be stressful, fretful and sometimes scary, but it’s only a stage and I’m dying  curious to know what’s coming next.

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