"No one asks to die" she tells me.
I listen, eyes glistening as she pains
even just to feign an ounce of joy.
"And no one asks to be born,"
I answered curtly.
She laughed.
I thought it was odd, but decided
to continue on
"And no one asks for a peanut allergy.
No
one asks for a midnight shiver or
a hungry night or
a lifetime of accidents
or cancer."
And she stopped laughing. And she
looked at me, all serious, eyes shining,
and she sneezed.
Debris flew all through the room,
and a little got in my eye.
We laughed, and the hospital bed that held us up finally gave way to something
important. We stopped looking
towards my bitter closing end, towards
the tunnel and the light, and we
spent thirty seconds giggling about a poorly timed explosion of nasal debris.
Thank you, dust particle,
for a second of anything
but silence.