You Feel It Just Below the Ribs

by Jeffrey Cranor

The idea of an apocalypse is a comfort, because it makes death seem like something we can all experience together, in a single moment, a colorful firework burst. But mostly death is something you keep to yourself. In reality, the apocalypse is most likely to be you, alone in a room with the flu.

I have known death all my life. I fear it, of course. But it is familiar. Death is a stray dog I have taken in and fed—not because I love it but because I don’t want it biting me out of hunger.

The Americans were kind but not welcoming. They introduced themselves and smiled. They tipped hats and commented on my excellent English. This friendliness suggested to me a readiness to bring me inside, let me warm by a fire, cook me some food. I would, of course, have offered to do some work around any house or farm that offered hospitality. But I found that in America, kindness stopped at speech.

Like many I had met in America, Harold asked me how I was doing and smiled as I spoke. And like the others, he kept his body rigid and forbidding. He did not look ready to welcome me into his home.