I know I am going to regret this but I want to say something about death. Not death in general, but my own death. That event of utmost uncertainty. The luck that got me here presumably peters out, drops the ball, as it were, folds, takes one for the team and determines, by way of virtually indisputable statistical evidence, to give up the ghost. Yeah. I guess. But some people guess wrong. Guess who. Not the band, though remembrance is a link. Think of a chain: the way one link fits with another. And the way they fit car tires in the snow. When it looks almost impossible to get there, you’re rolling again. An occasional slip and a slide but you get there. The low fence the color of snow, the crosses, the wrought-iron gate, the others holding black umbrellas, whispering things you shouldn’t say aloud. Past the whispers, on the snow, the wheels scrunch to a stop. This time you’re really here. Or am I? That’s the problem. Who’s who?
Metaphysics by Robert Witmer
