Friday, June 28, 2013
Your house is burning. You have a minute to take one thing. What would you choose? You’re in your office. It’s a beautiful afternoon. Suddenly, there’s a phone call. It’s from the hospital. Something has happened to your wife, your son, your family. Move. You’re a few minutes old, a few weeks early. Your lungs haven’t had time to be filled with the fluid that stops them from collapsing. You don’t have very much time. Each breath will pull your lungs closer, more and more. Breathe. Just breathe. You’re a stranger in your own body. You wake up one morning and you are unable to move. You live alone. No one comes in to wake you up, to check on you. You can feel the light in the room pass, and your windows burn you. But you can’t move an inch. It takes a couple of days for your neighbours to notice you. What is your name, again? Who knows you? Your parents died in a fire. It was a small fire. But your mother liked to read when she cooked. Her stack of books caught on fire which made the oil catch fire and the curtains burned and the tablecloth, the sofas, the bedspreads, hair, skin. Burned. All of it burned. Your house is burning. Your minute is up. Your pockets are empty.