I
I follow the dirt path along the edge of the marsh. Pickerel weed grows in abundance in the
shallow water. Its showy purple flowers attract damselflies – the insects we called “dining
needles” as kids. Nature can be cruel, though. Each flower lasts only a day. Hemingway was 10
years younger than I am now when he blew his brains out with his favorite double-barreled
shotgun.
II
Killing is prohibited by the Sixth Commandment. A shame dying isn’t, too. Basquiat was 27, his
face covered in oozing sores, when he OD’d. You’re wondering whether it was an accident or
suicide. Look for yourself. He punched a hole in the bathroom window. Beside it, he scratched
the words “Broken Heart.”
III
I had a rare and aggressive form of cancer. The nerves damaged during radiation are a frequent
torment, a frenzied swarm of stinging insects trapped beneath the skin. I manage to cope, but
only by exceeding the maximum recommended daily dosage. And then, ah, the cows roll
delightedly in the grass.