When death hangs in the pit of your stomach and pretends to move like a baby in a womb, you simply sit up and stand and head out and go. And do this and do that and talk talk talk.
“This sadness is crippling,” she said, sitting on the ground among spoons, shoes, notebooks and long stripes of sunlight.
Breathing had become difficult.
Death is not the bad guy, she said. It’s life that turns on us.
I agreed, but I didn’t want her to believe it. I frowned and said nothing.
I expected the gun shot to my head, but she never did. She sat in a hot car, sun streaming through the windows, talking about the absence of god and how death really isn’t so bad. She could feel everything. She was as bright as the lake as they crossed the bridge. Her feelings were colorful and the volume of her life was all the way up. She tasted and drank until she couldn’t fit any more.
Death now hangs at the bottom of her belly. It fills her up and there’s no room for the rest.
“I can’t breathe.” Her face was pale and her eyes hollow. “I need a mouth to press to my mouth to bring me back to life.”
I shuddered. Her flesh had begun to rot and I could smell death as I stared at her lips.
Please, take my hand, I cried.
She couldn’t. She wasn’t able to move. Her face did not twitch as she stared straight ahead.
Death filled her and the only movement I could see was a tiny foot that pushed up from beneath the skin of her abdomen. I fell back gasping for air, filled with the realization of life. That life. That death. That love does not stop either.