Passing Away

The snow cone stand was next to the candy store, Apple, and a full-sized cone was $1.25. Definitely a high price for a six year old, but I'd frequently find with a bit of whinging and annoyance to Mom, the money money would come around. Usually, to my unrepudiated happiness, on a daily basis. My favorite flavor was 'Tiger's Blood,' a red liquid that tasted just like sugar. On daring days, I would have a two- or three-flavor snow cone. The shaved ice would met under colorful and mismatched flavors of grape, sour apple, watermelon, and lemon.

Also when younger, I would visit a rest home on a regular basis. Some of its peculiarities are still with me. The pungent, decaying skin-smell. Listless and unapologetic lethargy. White curls, matted from inattention and random daylight naps. In the old's domiciliary, there is a certain flavor in the air. I used to believe it was the flavor of death. Death was creeping into those slow-flowing arteries, and it got caught up in a ball on the cornea to steal sight. At times it would pressure the mind with so many fractured and unrecollectable memories it poured out the ducts of the eyes as tears. The sugary flavor of death.

Where is the grace in dying?

Slighted cupidity for life in brandish displays of need. I can't figure it out. Dilatating against human, physical reason for some fading lost cause. Understandable. Yet, the imperceptible turning of hoary heads toward a window, opening door, or away from the 'putrid pain stuff.' The ambiance that graps my chest and makes a wheezing sound of fear and a little disgust. Those poor, old people.

Despite the feelings of my youth, I'm beginning to recognize a sort of spiritual emotional reconciliation of the old with their status in life. The acceptance of their lot, one could say. So it is here, in the submission, that I could find a glimmer of grace. If it was contentment, I could learn from it. If it is giving up, I won't. But, I'd like to hope for the best in those people who've lived a life unparalleled.