Waiting in line at a taco stand for my number to be called I started talking to a six-year-old kid kicking his little foot against A curb and waiting for his dad to come out of the bathroom.
And he said, “Why do you cough so much?”.
And I said, “Because I have cancer.”
And he said, “Bummer.”
And I said, “Yep.”
And he said, “Does it hurt?”
And I said, “Only when I breathe.”
And he said, “Why don’t you hold your breath?”
And I puffed out my cheeks like Lois Armstrong and Let him see it and held it for as long as I could Before exploding into a hacking eruption of Stupid sounds and saliva.
And he laughed. And I coughed and laughed.
And he said, “Feel better?”
And I said, “A bit.”
And I showed him how much better with my Thumb and index finger. And pointed at a green thread of mucous that had dribbled out onto my chin.
He said, “Gross.”
And wiping it off I said, “Yep.”
And he said, “My granddaddy had cancer before he died on the hospital.”
And I said, “You mean in the hospital?”
And he said, “Yeah on the hospital.”
And I said, “Oh, yeah?”
And he said, “He used to give me candy all of the times I ever saw him.” And I said, “Sorry kid, I don’t have any candy.”
And, deflated, he said, “Are you gonna die on the hospital?”
And I said, “You mean in the hospital?”
And he said, “Yea, are you gonna die on the hospital?”
And I said, “Probably.”
And he said, “OK.”
And, upon giving that gracious consent, the boy’s dad came out and The boy said, “Well, bye!”
And I said, “See ya.” And he ran off.
And, for a while, between the two of us, Dying became so very ordinary, like candy or tacos or semantics, And death itself suddenly just this obnoxious third-wheel A pitiful nuisance with nothing better to do with his time Than to tag along with me and this six-year-old kid.
And I sat smiling in the sun and imagining death at the moment, A sad sack of lonely-self slumped somewhere in the distance, As I waited for my number to come up.
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