A chill ran through my body that day.
I once heard a poet talk about our death days. Those days on which we will one day die. Shakespeare died on his birthday, which – in
addition to ruining the party – makes for some easy headstone math. We never celebrate these days, but perhaps
they are the best days. The world
celebrates for us by throwing us a bone.
Our favorite songs line up on the radio, or it’s the perfect
temperature. Something like that.
So perhaps this was not my death day.
Perhaps, as an old Samuel once told me, a goose walked over
my grave. It sent a chill through my
body that would not leave. It sunk into
my bones and made them lead. I shivered
and jittered my way through a thoroughly average day. That goose must have stayed put. The chill stayed so long in my body that I
thought I would never be warm again.
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