One Hundred and Twenty Four

Another false alarm.

The doctor said I’d have to be hospitalized if my condition didn’t improve. I have no intention of dying in hospital, so once again I prepared to kill myself; but now my condition is improving. I’ve even begun taking daily walks again.

But while my body soldiers on, my brain continues dying. I felt the prefrontal cortex go numb after she died, and now the top of my head, the cortex, feels numb.

Leonard is also preparing for death, sending family memorabilia he’s saved over the years to relatives who probably throw it away.

He keeps saying he has only two more years. He doesn’t want to die alone, at home, so he intends to move in with one of his relatives.

Family means everything to him, but I doubted his relatives feel the same, so I wondered if any of them would agree to take him in. 

I don’t want to die alone any more than Leonard does, and considered suggesting to him that he move in with me (or I with him). Apparently he anticipated this, because lately he’s been making disparaging remarks about friendship. Friends can’t be relied on, he says. Only family.

He’s chosen to live with Eric, who recently lost his job, his house and his wife, and is now working as a bartender and living in a room above the bar. I’m sure Eric will be happy to share living expenses with Leonard, who receives two pensions: one from the city, and another from the navy.

Piecemeal the body dies, and the timid soul

has her footing washed away as the dark flood rises.

We are dying, we are dying, we are all of us dying

and nothing will stay the flood rising within us

soon it will rise on the world.

We are dying, we are dying, piecemeal our bodies are dying

our strength leaves us

and our soul cowers naked in the dark rain over the flood,

cowering in the last branches of the tree of our life.

We are dying, we are dying, and all we can do now

is be ready to die
and build the ship of death 
to carry the soul on the longest journey.

A little ship, with oars and food

and little dishes, and all accoutrements

fitting and ready for the departing soul.

Now launch the ship
now, as the body dies and life departs
launch the fragile soul in the fragile ship of courage, the ark of faith

with its store of food and little cooking pans

and change of clothes,

upon the flood's black waste

upon the waters of the end

upon the sea of death, where still we sail

darkly, for we cannot steer, and have no port.

There is no port, there is no place to go

only the deepening black darkening 
still blacker upon the soundless flood

darkness at one with darkness, up and down.

And the little ship is there, yet she is gone.

She is not seen, for there is nothing to see her by.

She is gone! gone! and yet

somewhere she is there.

Nowhere!

Everything is gone, the body is gone

completely gone, entirely gone.

The upper darkness is as heavy as the lower

and between them the little ship

is gone.

She is gone.

It is the end, it is oblivion.