Athanasia
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22 Years late

A package sits on my doorstep. 22 years late. No apology. No explanation. A message in a bottle from my past self. But 22 years ago I hardly knew its meaning. Or its consequences. A fine wine that should have been enjoyed. Instead it soured as it languished in time. To drink of it now would be more repulsive than to abstain. A sour message for this bitter old man.

My 72-year-old hands cramp as I pick up the box. This old carcass is not worth keeping around. But it’s all I have. Because this package is late.

My friends don’t care. Greg Walters got his a week ago. He’s been having party, dancing a stupid jig as he takes a shot every morning. Says to have something is better than to have nothing. To have some life, no matter how hard or scrappy, is better than death, he says.

Agnes Crenshaw has been drinking it for a month. She says she can already feel the difference. Like she didn’t realize how fast she was falling until she had stopped. I tried to tell her that it matters where she stopped, not just that she had stopped. But she prattled on in her inanely, ever-optimistic way. If there was ever a time I wanted to see her sad, or at least less happy, it was today.

F#@k.

Now what?