It's a cold, dry night in New Brunswick, strangely quiet for a Friday and haunting to walk around in. Even on the busy part of town, where the young college students drink and fuck themselves into the delusion of a better life, it's strangely subdued. It's a difficult night not to think of change, now that the fall is bearing down on us.
I remember the day I first learned about death. It's very vivid in my mind, really. I was at my grandparent's house, sitting in the kitchen. Someone called my grandmother and told her that there was a dog loose in the neighborhood, a rabid Doberman. I was sitting in the kitchen, looking out the window onto the porch. Suddenly, it was there, slamming its face against the window, snarling and barking like you see only in mad dogs and homeless crackheads. I stood there, transfixed, with my grandmother, terrified of the dog.
Something occurred to me as I watched the dog. The door was only twenty feet to my left, leading out onto the same porch where the dog waited. And all it would take to invite death into my home was for it to open the door. It couldn't use a doorknob. That was the only thing keeping me safe.
It was the last time I ever took anyone at face value.
I'm interested if anyone else who reads this has a story. I don't want morbid tales, and I don't need comments about my own being strange. It was a dog, that's it. To be honest, I was all better after the damned thing left. But I'm curious about the rest of you. We all know that we're going to die someday, on one level or another. But I don't think most of us really do know. We understand it the same way we understand pissing or eating: it has to happen.
For the rest of us, let's share the story. It's one of the most significant revelations in life, after all.