Broom (12)

BROOM (12)

I was trying to construct a kind of prayer as I brushed off the dandruff from the back of my chair. (Is it art or love that I strive for, I thought. Or, am I more interested in the bike I just bought?) Who cares, I'm most sad that I'm losing my hair. At this rate, just two years and my pate will be bare.

So, I turned to my girls (who know much of this world). I said, 'tell me, my dears, what's it mean to get old?'

The one with the hoola-hoop winced as she said, 'your skin starts to sag and your face gets all red.'

The one from Exotica was somewhat oblique: 'Enlightenment; that's the thing we all seek.'

The artist who always remains on the train, was slow to reply (no signal again). The one who is always delayed on the track said, 'you get old and the world wants to give you the sack; it will never forgive you the youth that you lack.'

And, I suddenly thought, what becomes of the dead (and I felt myself miserably consumed with a dread). Do we know if we've landed in heaven or hell? If only the dead could come back and re-tell of what happens to them when they croak their last breath. (God, I'm scared to death of dying.)