Life expectancy

(Knocking furiously on wood)

OBVIOUSLY, IT DIDN’T come about, or I wouldn’t be writing this. But one of these days, the reports of our deaths, vis-à-vis Mark Twain, won’t be greatly exaggerated.

They’ll be right on the money.

A morbid thought? Maybe. Realistic? Certainly.

I don’t think it’s Covid, though pretty much anything could be these days, and I rather hope it isn’t.

I haven’t been sick since before the pandemic and Lesley and I are among the few people who appear never to have been stricken with it. If we were, we were asymptomatic and never noticed. I’m quite proud of that.

Anyway, I’ve come down with what I’m thinking of as a chest cold, wheezing and generally feeling… not so much sick as less than high spirited. A bit low on joie de vivre.

I decided to rest for a couple of hours and Cassady, sprawled out for the sleep that links her morning and evening naps, graciously agreed to share the bed.

To be honest, I’m not sure she even noticed I was there.

As I drifted in and out of a light and somewhat stertorous doze, a thought occurred to me:

“This is where you might die.”

Well, it’s the sort of thing that happens.

You used to read about it in the papers, when there were papers.

I’ve done stories myself:

“When I went to take him a cup of tea, he’d slipped away. So peacefully. Almost as if he didn’t want to cause anyone any trouble.”

Ah, they don’t write them like that anymore. Not a dry eye around the breakfast table.

There are worse ways to go, for sure. Though he actually might have gone, metaphorically kicking and screaming.

I’m pretty sure I would, if I realized it was happening.

Like: “Wait a second…”

Not that I want to cause anyone any trouble, you understand.

But when the roll is called up yonder, I’m hoping to be out of earshot.

Let them come and find for me.

(Yes, I know they will. They haven’t missed anyone yet.)