Volume No. XVIII
Volume No. XVII
Volume No. XVI
Volume No. XV
Volume No. XIV
Volume No. XIII
Volume No. XII
Volume No. XI
Volume No. X
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Volume No. VII
Volume No. VI
Volume No. V
Volume No. IV
Volume No. III
Volume No. II
Volume No. I
Archives
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Volume No. XIII
Volume No. XIV
Volume No. XV
Volume No. XVI
Volume No. XVII
Volume No. XVIII
When it comes down to it you and I will deal as we always do in our own unique ways with the vagaries of finality.
You will see my passing as natural maybe a little karmic, your punishment for bragging that everything was going so well.
I'll complain that God is damn difficult, alternate between the peace which passes understanding and the first law of thermodynamics - nothing created, nothing destroyed.
People tell me their end desires as if I had some inside track - If I die, don't bring me back. Walk away, just let me go. Foolish pessimists, what do they know who expect me to stay past my time.
A billboard flashes by - "Someday." That's all it says, all it has to say. You understand. No cosmic plan. On good days, I romp with grandchildren, on bad days, pick out funeral garb.
And when your time comes, you won't go gently either. We have to play the parts as written, see them through to the end.
You play the part of the grieving widower, and I will be the wind.
Wendy Thornton works at the University of Florida and has published in The Literary Review, MacGuffin, River Teeth and other journals. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, is President of the Writers Alliance of Gainesville, and is a proud cancer survivor. This piece is dedicated to her husband who, she says, pulled her kicking and screaming through treatment.
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