Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man

When I die, I do hope it is not as quick as a sleeping man swats kills a fly. That is how my aunt Rose died, and my cousin, Larry died, and how my uncle Chris died in the hospital, unattended, all alone in the dark; it all happened suddenly and abrupt, without warning-to all mentioned, all in the matter of a few years, on nice seasonal days. There she was my Auntie Rose, walking in the living room of her granddaughter's apartment where she lived, and choked to death, no one hearing her, almost sleepwalking, and she died, just like that, and that was all that was left of her, one short, and everlasting day. Then she turned cold in death, and pale and stiff, as we all do. We had vaguely spoken to one another after my mother died, three years prior. And like my grandfather, twenty-years before, she laid on the floor, her blue veins protruding. There she was like that-just like that.


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man


Sleeping Man