Just the teeth and eyes are all that’s left. The rest of me evaporated to the surface of the sun.
When I was born they wrote a book about my life, and every day I’ve had to tear out one of the pages, wad it up and stuff it down my throat.
Now just a few pages and the index remain. If I concentrate, I can recall a few things. Like,
Army, see Military Service.
Military Service,
World War I, 33-76, 37m
National Reserves, 88-100
Also:
DePaul University,
Undergraduate, 78-95
Professor of Literature, 226-300
And:
Homosexuality,
Discovery of, 11-12, 14
Repression of, 22-32, 74, 90, 103-109, 155, 176, 200-202, 228, 235
Public revelation of, 289-295
I sit on the edge of my hospital bed holding an old photograph, yellowed around the edges. A sharp-framed army cadet standing there, squinting into the sun. I’m able to conjure a character, like a cartoon, and I try to tell myself That’s you, that’s who you are.
There has been no grace in my aging. I am falling apart, piece by piece. Grace was just one of the first things to go. All I have left now are teeth and eyes.
The cartoon climbs out of the photograph and starts marching around my bedspread, big grin. Learned professor, decorated veteran. Decorated for what? I have no medals or diplomas now. They evaporated along with everything else useful.
I have only moments left.
But the greatest moments of my life may have been the greatest moments of any one’s. I’m sure there are many people who have had greater.
But still, I had a few.
I wish I could continue to live and grow like a tree, not bothering anybody, not needing anybody just living and pulling water from the ground and my food from the sun.
As I get up to use the toilet I pass Cherie, lying in the other bed. She’s nothing more than a puddle in that bed now. Soon she’ll be completely dried up, she’ll be just a stain on those sheets. And then they’ll wash the sheets.
I have only moments left, but moments are elastic. I can twist moments around my fingers like a rubber band. Stretch them until they snap. But what happens then?
As I sit on the toilet contemplating my incontinence, it occurs to me that if I were to have a stroke at this very moment and die, it would be convenient for the cleaning crew. When I inevitably shit myself, it’ll go straight in the bowl.
How many people in history have died sitting on the crapper? How many of them dreamed of dying that way? When they imagined their personal destinies, did any of them think they would expire on a toilet-paper-lined greasy plastic toilet lid?
Did any of them think how convenient that would be for the cleaning crews?
When I was born they wrote a book about my life, and every day I’ve had to tear out one of the pages, wad it up and stuff it down my throat.
Now just a few pages and the index remain. If I concentrate, I can recall a few things. Like,
Army, see Military Service.
Military Service,
World War I, 33-76, 37m
National Reserves, 88-100
Also:
DePaul University,
Undergraduate, 78-95
Professor of Literature, 226-300
And:
Homosexuality,
Discovery of, 11-12, 14
Repression of, 22-32, 74, 90, 103-109, 155, 176, 200-202, 228, 235
Public revelation of, 289-295
I sit on the edge of my hospital bed holding an old photograph, yellowed around the edges. A sharp-framed army cadet standing there, squinting into the sun. I’m able to conjure a character, like a cartoon, and I try to tell myself That’s you, that’s who you are.
There has been no grace in my aging. I am falling apart, piece by piece. Grace was just one of the first things to go. All I have left now are teeth and eyes.
The cartoon climbs out of the photograph and starts marching around my bedspread, big grin. Learned professor, decorated veteran. Decorated for what? I have no medals or diplomas now. They evaporated along with everything else useful.
I have only moments left.
But the greatest moments of my life may have been the greatest moments of any one’s. I’m sure there are many people who have had greater.
But still, I had a few.
I wish I could continue to live and grow like a tree, not bothering anybody, not needing anybody just living and pulling water from the ground and my food from the sun.
As I get up to use the toilet I pass Cherie, lying in the other bed. She’s nothing more than a puddle in that bed now. Soon she’ll be completely dried up, she’ll be just a stain on those sheets. And then they’ll wash the sheets.
I have only moments left, but moments are elastic. I can twist moments around my fingers like a rubber band. Stretch them until they snap. But what happens then?
As I sit on the toilet contemplating my incontinence, it occurs to me that if I were to have a stroke at this very moment and die, it would be convenient for the cleaning crew. When I inevitably shit myself, it’ll go straight in the bowl.
How many people in history have died sitting on the crapper? How many of them dreamed of dying that way? When they imagined their personal destinies, did any of them think they would expire on a toilet-paper-lined greasy plastic toilet lid?
Did any of them think how convenient that would be for the cleaning crews?
