Sunday, November 16, 2003
"And suddenly it is evening."
I remember math classes where I imagined myself swinging a baseball bat at the cold brick walls, the neat vertical lines of the numbers crunching forward, the back of the chalk board exposing itself.
I read the death notices today. Two 87-year-old men died. One had merely a line: his name and an obscure funeral home. No family, no friends, no beloved. A 21-year-old student died, circumstances not given. A two-day-old boy died; "but he gave us so much," was written.
There are still days -- even Sunday nights -- when I wish I could drink myself numb.
I read the death notices today. Two 87-year-old men died. One had merely a line: his name and an obscure funeral home. No family, no friends, no beloved. A 21-year-old student died, circumstances not given. A two-day-old boy died; "but he gave us so much," was written.
There are still days -- even Sunday nights -- when I wish I could drink myself numb.
