“Every year, without knowing it, we pass the date of our death,” declares Jonathan Gold, eyes flitting around the table.
When I was a freshman in college, I was assigned to read a poem by W.S. Merwin titled “For the Anniversary of My Death.” It begins: “Every year without knowing it I have passed the day / When the last fires will wave to me / And the silence will set out.” What an unsettling idea! That we have a “death day” just as much as we have a “birth day.” The notion stuck with me, and I turned to it when I needed some ominously foreshadowing dinner conversation on McAnnis’ first night at the club.
Cindy and 3 other people liked this
