antiseptic
Life has grown antiseptic. We don't die near one another these days; only a small percentage of people watch others die. We lock up our guns in metal cases. We shoo away moles with towels.
When we tell each other the stories of our daily lives, it is disconnected from my great grandparents lives. They kept their guns on the porch. Babies were born at home; babies died at home. Maybe I breath the same as they did, but I don't live as close to life as they did. They were with life because they were with death.
I did watch my great grandmother die, surrounded by machines. One would pump her lungs. One would move her stomach acid in and out, a brown fluid that was sticky looking. I remember it smelled like plastic. But when her baby died at home, did it smell like plastic?
Life is growing antiseptic; the colors and smells have been distorted to help me breathe longer.
When we tell each other the stories of our daily lives, it is disconnected from my great grandparents lives. They kept their guns on the porch. Babies were born at home; babies died at home. Maybe I breath the same as they did, but I don't live as close to life as they did. They were with life because they were with death.
I did watch my great grandmother die, surrounded by machines. One would pump her lungs. One would move her stomach acid in and out, a brown fluid that was sticky looking. I remember it smelled like plastic. But when her baby died at home, did it smell like plastic?
Life is growing antiseptic; the colors and smells have been distorted to help me breathe longer.