Perhaps it was a prelude death-an unexpected death of unknown causes-the death of the family. “Adult stuff,” they pseudo-explained, “you wouldn’t understand.” They assured me it wasn’t my fault and refused to elaborate further. I was single-digits-old when my parents divorced. One not so easily dismissed by the slang little boys use to keep feelings at bay: It’s the summer I stumbled upon a different form of death that stays with me. Death comes uninvited regardless-my goldfish belly-up in its bowl or my grandfather resting in his coffin-the expected deaths of youth that are easily forgotten. No one’s willing to risk a whisper when the Grim Reaper’s nearby. I don’t know who taught me to hold my breath when I walk past a cemetery, but I know all my childhood friends held theirs, too. It catches my ear, but I let it pass.īasketball courts host more inviting conversations than cemeteries.ĭeath talk is taboo. I am well into my thirties when my father says to me, “I’m not afraid of dying, I just haven’t tried it yet.” It’s a one-off comment on a phone call that includes a play-by-play of how he convinced the cable company to give him another free month of HBO and a breakdown of his top five coaching candidates for the Indiana Hoosiers.
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