...The light wasn’t particularly bright and I approached it with a great deal of trepidation.  No one looked terribly familiar, but there were scents that I knew to be remnants of my distant, elderly, nay, deceased cousin Enid’s unique aroma of cheap French perfume and Ben-Gay.  Reason enough for trepidation, if death alone hadn’t provided the impetus for some reluctance on my part.

So, I’m on the precipice, and as is only natural, still hoping things could go either way.  They say the first step in dealing with the loss of a loved one is “denial”.  Trust me, this is the first step for all parties involved.

When I was 16 years old I hit a parked car on the wrong side of the road with my Father’s Chevy Biscayne.  The fenders of both vehicles immediately became engaged in some sort of automotive conjugal ritual, which should only be viewed by cars over the age of 21.  My first instinct was to thrust the gearshift into reverse and depress the gas pedal, my reasoning being that if I could back up and remove the car, and myself, from this situation then maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all.  I still think it might have worked if the bumpers hadn’t been locked together.  Two twisted bits of chrome were all that stood between me and the secret to time travel.  Extremely frustrating.

Death evoked similar emotions.

But, the cars were eventually repaired and returned to their original state.  My original state was Kansas, and I wasn’t sure returning was the best possible option.

Death might actually be preferable...


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