Funeral March

17 Sep

I’ve started to subtract days now. There is the grand total, yes, and now I’ve started to count backwards. Every point is the halfway point. Or the last day. I don’t really want to be here anymore. Not in this room. Not passing this day. The little one has been pushed down the ice with enough momentum to carry her through into time. Enough of a boost to get her to the point at which she can blow into her own sails. I’m the man who gets further and further behind, smiling at her progress. I don’t really want to be in this room with all of them. It’s a strange thing, being able to smell death. Their death. Mine. All I hear is individual clocks ticking. I sit on the floor, Indian-style, and flash smiles when I need to, but all I can see is digits moving backwards toward zero. All of theirs and mine. Smile, applaud, encourage. Repeat.

She looks at a large replica of DaVinci’s masterpiece and I ask her: “Who’s this, baby?”
She touches the texture with her little index finger and says: “Buddha.”

Coming down the mountain I look into the valley hiding in the clouds and think: if I veer off and somehow make it through the metal guard rail I can fly for a moment. But I don’t attempt it. I am afraid of failure.


Instead, I hurry home. There are people waiting for me with wine.


2 Responses to “Funeral March”

  1. choochoo 17/09/2007 at 1:31 PM #

    I blow into my own sails all the time. I’m blowing into my sails right now. And drinking soda. Life is good.

  2. slyboots2 17/09/2007 at 2:39 PM #

    You call it a funeral march, but I personally envision something to the tune of “Baby Elephant March” by Mancini. Because it’s all so silly.

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