I shaved a dead man today, my second in seven years. I remember the first time, close to seven years ago, because I wrote about it.
I searched through all of my old blogs just now – time capsules into days I thought lost – but I can’t find the piece. This both frustrates and challenges me; I know it is somewhere, if not deep in my mind. I want it back, I want to compare my thoughts then, to my thoughts now.
Today, as a man’s life ended while I shaved his face, I thought about brunch, and art fairs, and all the things most twenty-somethings were up to this muggy Saturday. How vast life’s chasms are.
I’ll let the poem I jotted on my lunch break speak:
Let’s Do Brunch
It occurred to me this morning:
I should be meeting her for brunch,
not shaving her father’s face
as he dies.
(Is this real?)
Why the universe decided on
father, not mine,
Saturday, not Tuesday,
AM, not PM,
I won’t know.
I pedal home for lunch and
think about his yellow-dead lips,
and wish she was
just my friend,
and we were
just drunk by two,
caught in this first warm rain.