My photo
Twisting all the bad things into good

Aug 31, 2013


"Scott then asked me if I were afraid to die and I said more at some times than at others"
Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast


The wait was almost over.
"71" called the lady sitting behind the counter.
He was next.
"72" she called.
His time had come.
He took his wrinkled up yellow number and his broken down green book and his necessary documents to her.
His height was still 6'1. His eyes still hazel. His vision still perfect.
Only his state had changed.
The lady had a fading butterfly tattoo on the inside of her wrist.
She noticed his book while he filled in the blanks.
"I didn't know Hemingway was able to write a short story" she said.
He began to raise his eyes but never got past her butterfly.
He just kept writing.
"Yeah," he said. "Some of them are actually pretty good."

On his way home, he stopped at Dunkin Donuts for some coffee. It was iced coffee and it was good, strong coffee. The lady who worked there knew how he liked it. Lots of cream, lots of sweetening stimulant, and not a lot of ice.
He sat in the same booth where he always sat and he looked at his new picture on his new license.
He looked younger and healthier and happier than he did on his old license picture taken 35 months earlier. But he was getting tired of waiting for his time to come. He wasn't getting any taller.
He thought about the story he'd been working on. It was the only thing he'd ever handwritten in pencil and he didn't know what possessed him to not just type it.
It was a sad story and he wondered if it was worth the toll it was taking on him to write it.
But he knew it was a good story and he hoped very much to finish it while his vision was still perfect, before her butterfly faded any further.
It was a true story. It was the best thing he'd ever written  and he considered never letting anyone ever read it.
He was not an organ donor.

No comments:

Post a Comment