DEATH CAN BE SWEET
Death can be sweet, he said. Like drowning in blackberry jam.
I met him somewhere between where you are and where I am. It was dark, the stars stark and sudden, our breath colored with cold. Or maybe it was day, bright in the park, the grasses scurrying under our feet, joggers moving along the spider web of sidewalks. He does not look like they say, neither skeletal nor hooded, neither reaper-wielding nor ominously tall. More like Joe Black really, bearded, unassuming, awfully handsome and quiet and gray.
We talked easily of our occupations, me relating the minutia of mail delivery, him detailing the depths of death. I told him about the constant flow of mail in letters and magazines and furniture catalogs; he told me about the incessant demand for death among the old and young and up-and-coming.
I like to park the truck and walk as much as I can, I said. Look people in the eye when I give them their mail. I like to leave the scene before someone finds them, he said. I hate to see mothers approaching baby strollers, sons finding fathers, the ambulance driver at the scene of his wifeís car accident. But the act itself was glorious, he said. Sublime. Just as the sun began to set or the dark began to dawn, he took my hand and I thought of jam, dark and sweet.
by Sam
