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Dec. 6, 2004 I’m not afraid of dying. At least I wasn’t until I wrote this. (Someone else died) this one left her child behind. Second close to home car death this month, but the second death took a younger life. It always seems more tragic this way. Little Quinn is not even two I bet. I know my time will be your time. That time could be soon, or thousands of nights away. Because I follow you with my heart, I won’t go a single moment before you will it. Having that girl in gym class was fun, there she was lifting weights trying to shed the extra skin she grew her baby in, and all she could talk about was this great hamburger place that still serves taco’s because it used to be a Mexican restaurant. When she wasn’t in class I wondered if she might instead be at some burger joint down the street. I played two songs on my guitar at the memorial service. Choking on the words, it was nauseating to be on stage. I pictured my friend being ejected from her old brown car, through the glass and onto the side of the freeway, her babies cry coming out from under the rubble in a faint whimper, as people slammed on their breaks and dialed numbers into cell phones. I guess there are reasons why you say not to worry what I will wear, or what I will eat. Because these things are temporary. My throat is an open grave, and death I understand, but don’t care to see…Another body flung into the street by an old car. A lifeless useless cavity. Another baby without a mother, another person without their friend. Where is she now? I want to know. Where is she now? Her bodies in the ground. But where is her spirit? What is a spirit anyways? What’s a soul? What is my voice, or my thoughts that have my mind tell my hand what to write? And my hand is just trained anyway, it doesn’t know what it does, it’s not my mind, it doesn’t have a mind of it’s own. I can’t understand this thing you made. My thoughts. My heart. My soul. My spirit. My mechanical reflexes. Tears. And what really am I made of? When my flesh is wasted, when my bones are smashed back to dust. When I can’t see the way I do now, when I don’t smell with my nose, or feel textures with my fingertips, or a hand on my shoulder, or across my face. When I can’t taste because I have no tongue. How can that be that I will taste when I have no mouth. When my body turns to dust and goes back into the earth it came from. Where will I be then? What is my substance? I know that Theresa Taylor rests in your arms tonight. But I still don’t know what I’m made of. It’s some strange and complex work that you did. ------------ About the author: Mechele Cassells is 22. One day she will own her own radio station, write a couple books and get married. In the meantime she'll just play guitar, drink coffee, and eat dictionaries. That's the life! Email: mecheolight@aol.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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