by F. G. King
A picture worth a thousand words,
A life worth a thousand pictures
He walked along the side of the road. His hair was dusted with grey, and his skin was weathered and lined with age. He pushed a shopping cart in front of him, and it rattled over the uneven ground. Cars drove by, kicking up sand and dirt in his face. He wrapped a tattered scarf around his face, even though it was late June. He wore a t-shirt with holes in it, and a vest that had once been a lively green, though it was now stained the color of grease.
As he walked one of the wheels on the cart snagged a pot hole, tipped all of the man’s possessions onto the ground. It scattered there, on the side of the road. Most of it was the typical fare of the homeless ragged blankets and used clothes. Canned goods rolled into the highway, or off the side of the road. Interestingly enough there wasn’t a single bottle of liquor amongst the man’s possessions, which would normally be expected of a wandering hobo. There was, however; a plastic baggie. Inside was a very clean manila envelope. Of all his scattered worldly possessions the man snatched this up first. He picked the cart up and prepared to drop the plastic bag back inside, but he paused. He opened up the plastic baggie, there on the side of the road. It was a long time before he managed to open the envelope. His dirty fingers marked the outside considerably. On the inside was a single picture, accompanied by a small news clipping. The picture was of a family, all of them smiling, all of them very alive. He smiled at it for a moment. Next to the picture was the news clipping, the headline read, ‘Father Driving Drunk Kills Whole Family.’
Slowly, carefully he slipped the envelope back into the protective bag and picked up the rest of his life. He trudged on, following the road, not caring where it went, as long as he didn’t have to go back.
Immortal Memory
They spoke of others when you lie there, dressed in the white gown you had only ever worn once before. The gown of your wedding day. You had had many in your life whom you have loved. All of them had been secret at one time or another. Now they were all known by name. Rumor and revelation spread quickly on the day of a funeral. You are dead, as are most of those who were truly your friends. As is the way with people, they do not think there is anyone left to hurt with the truth.
I can forgive them. They do not know me, and of course, I have my share of secrets, just as you did. I can remember it with such clarity, when I called you love, and you spoke of love back to me. We talked of dreams for a summer. Then next we spoke of forevers together. I am sorry, but I always knew it would not be. Forever was not something that we would have together.
Here in the funeral home, they do not see you for who you are. They see the shell of what time has done to you. Two husbands, both whom you loved dearly. The first had broken his promise of faithfulness, and you left him with tears and heartache unlike any that you had ever known before, well, perhaps only once before. The second broke his promise as well. He promised to be with you forever. He left on that foggy morning in June. The truck driver fell asleep at the wheel, and there was no one to save your lover then. Your children grew and went away and from there you lived alone.
The procession to your casket begins, and I am standing in line, waiting to pay my last respects. It is strange, how funerals change. I remember when they would send those like you away with fire. The light would dance around the vacant forms, hot and horrible. Yet, there was always something mystical about it, because they would douse water on the flame, making the timber smoke. The bodies would vanish behind the wall of steam, and when it cleared, they would be no more. I think I prefer that way. Here now, you look like you could be asleep. The result of the death-dresser’s skill. I prefer you as you had been that first summer anyway.
Everyone here ignores me, as is always the result of ignorance. To them I am an anonymous great nephew, or some other equally obscure and distant relation. They think I am here to look upon a corpse, but they do not know what we shared. Some weep when they come to see you, while others stare blankly down. Here, in the room comforting words are spoken in reverent tones. Yet, elsewhere in the building I hear them whisper your secrets.
I and I alone stand in front of your open casket. Unlike everyone before I stand here and smile. For I remember you as you were. I knew we could never be forever, but for a moment we could be. Here your hair is white and curled, not like the vibrant brown lochs of your youth. Your frame is withered and your hands gnarled with age. Flesh like yours is strange, passing. I am now as I was then, the youth you fell in love with. I had warned you before the first kiss, but you did not heed it. How could you understand then? Even now, you are younger than I was then. I had been so alone, for so long, with heartache burdening my soul. I gave into a flight of fancy, and I hope you can forgive me for falling in love with you as well.
When my time is up, and I continue on from the casket, unlike all the others, I will look back; as they whisper secrets, I will hold them dearly close. The one secret they will never have will be the one that we once shared. A summer we had met, me in my immortal youth, and you, merely passing through.
The Petition
He walks along a narrow whitewashed hall. Two escorts stride beside him. The flickering fluorescent bulbs cast a dim light on them. They take him to a whitewashed room with a single sky-blue chair. Unprompted the man sits down and quietly waits. A young woman enters through the door carrying a clipboard and pen. Unblinking with a vacant expression she hands the man both items. The woman says, “Your petition has been accepted,” then she points to a line on the papers, “Sign here please.”
The man scrawls his name. “That’s it then? The last paper?” He asks, sounding hopeful.
The woman nods, “Yes, that’s it,” then she turns and leaves the room. They wait, but there is no clock in the room, nor do any of them possess a watch. The only sound is the three of them breathing. After the silence seems to echo off the walls, they hear the footsteps of the woman returning. A lab coat is draped over her shoulders; in her hand is a small needle. She presses a button on the side of the man’s chair, and it reclines so that he is now lying down. “Let me see your arm,” The woman says gently.
He holds up his arm, and the woman removes the cover from the hypodermic needle, she presses it against his skin, but then he exclaims, “Wait!” She stops, turning her eyes to his face, “What is your name?” he asks.
“Gayle,” the woman replies quietly.
He smiles slightly, “Gayle, could you do me a favor?”
“What?” Gayle asks.
“Can you tell me good-bye?” He asks with an edge of desperation in his voice.
She nods, and then inserts the needle into his arm pressing the plunger. With trembling fingers she looks into his eyes, and says softly, “Goodbye,” then she and the escorts walk from the room. For a few moments the sound of his breath echoes off the walls in the room. Then, even that ceases.
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