I See You've Called in Dead

by John Kenney

“There are these nuns,” Howard said. “We ran this story a while back. They practice something called memento mori. Latin for remember that you die. They sit and pray, meditating on this notion, that in every action we should remember, have to remember, that we die. When they were asked if it was depressing, they said no, quite the opposite. They said it makes life so … almost impossibly beautiful.”

This energy that is New York, this riptide you can’t fight. This endless offering of life. What do you want? it asks. Art? Music? Theatre? Drugs? Sex? Money? Dog parks? Good Korean food at 4 a.m.? Say the word and it’s yours.

The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark.”

How rude of the dead to die. How selfish. Wherever they are, no pain, in eternal darkness or wondrous afterlife. And here we are, tears streaming down our cheeks, the knotted stomach and clammy palms, a feeling akin to falling, in a dream that won’t end.