The Five Wishes of Mr. Murray McBride

by Joe Siple

Things hurt worst first thing in the morning. It’s like death senses an opportunity—an old man lying down, eyes closed, breathing slowly. Like most of his job is already done for him and all he has to do is lower the final blow. Next thing you know, I’ll be floating up to St. Peter’s gate. Except I keep cheating death, one way or another. So each morning I wake up, feeling like death got a little closer than the last time, and I have to work a little more to get life back into my arms and legs, my eyelids and toes. Takes a while, too. Longer each morning, seems to me.