PPPPPP-Power

Put on the suit and look in the mirror. Feel the power packed into the shoulder-pads, the prestige pressed into the pants. Smile. Pearly whites, perfect tights.

Arrive at The Place. Put your name down and be seated. Eye the parfaits and pulp-free juice as you wait....wait....

Walk in and "have a seat please." Open the padpfolio and read it. Printed words on paper with perfectly sharp corners: "This is what it means to grow up. This is what it means to have power."

Make your journey back. Puff up with pride at your performance. Perhaps you had fooled them. Perhaps there was potential.

Be stopped in your tracks.

Your private cloud 9 was perforated - pricked with the pricks surrounding you.

Hey baby they say. Where you goin precious? I'll let you ride my train to get there.

Pick up the pace. Bitch got places to be? I'll show you a place you ain't never been before.

Pant harder, pant faster. PUSSYASS HOE. COME BACK AND I'LL PUT MY P RIGHT DOWN THAT PRETTY LITTLE THROAT OF YOURS.

Putter back home to your pathetic place of residence. Put your tears back into your pupils.

Peel off the suit, the pants, the pearls.

No one told you this is what it means to have Power.

That this is what it means to be Powerless.

On Death.

Alternate titles include: On things that will make you question the existence of God; On things that don’t hit you until they hit you, or someone you love; On being guilty for being alive.

It’s never fair – ever. No matter which way you slice it, death is death is death, and the dark logic always amounts to zero. And unless you add a 30 to that zero, dark, logic, you never ever want to watch it happen.

I’ve witnessed death twice in my lifetime. The first time, I was young. Not young enough to misunderstand what was going on, but young enough to feel suffocated, like he was. A crowded hospital room. An air that changed - from stories and laughter to wails and screams in the blink of an eye that couldn’t blink; it was glued shut. The Moment was preceded by repetitive breaths. His head laid to the side, profile facing us. It moved up and down on the pillow, in rhythm with each inhale, exhale. The Last Breath was slow, like a graceful release of the poisonous cells that ruined him. There was silence.

The second time, I was older. It was cold and it was Christmas. I knew the ropes. I was expectant and ready. I wore red and green. But The Moments Before threw me, and screwed me. It was different this time. More people, more chaos. Red eyes, shaky fingers, sweaty foreheads circled around her. Tongues flapped incessantly and heat stuck to the air. I was older. I was guilty. I leaned into her ear and whispered I’m sorry. The Last Breath was quick, like a hasty escape from the dreadful caroling surrounding her. The screams continued.

This is death. Memories that can only be seen with the haze of an eye filled to the brim. Two stories tied together with this one, hideous black ribbon. I wrap them up, and tuck them away. They stay there, side by side, in a nook of my memory that collects dust until summoned.

“The doctors say there are only 24 hours left.”

I say nothing.

I blow off the dust.

I slowly untie the grainy black ribbon.

I see them, waiting to greet me with their pointed faces and maniacal grins.

Hello, I say.

I wait.