Tuesday, May 03, 2005
The Licking Flames of Night
My neighbor’s house caught fire last week. It’s the beautiful, yellow Victorian on the corner built in 1901. We live three blocks from the Tennessee River, and when casino boats dock and let their passengers stroll the neighborhood, most take a picture of this fabulous vintage house.
But it went up in flames and Jill tried to wake me from what she called loud snoring to come outside and look. I declined and peeped through the blinds where I discovered a world of fire trucks and hustling firemen, climbing into the flames, disappearing above the smoke—ascending and descending like Jacob’s ladder.
The sight was disarming. The underbelly of dignity escaped from the windows and doors. Open for the world to see it in a weak moment on the six o’clock news. Now people cruise the neighborhood to view the black charred place where a house used to be a home.
It's the way I imagine death. People staring and pointing while paramedics pump our chests or close our eyes the way they do in western movies. Then a cold cadaverous undertaker looks where we have remained hidden. The doors and windows flung open for the draining to begin.
And somehow I believe we will be standing in the yard—the way my neighbor stood in his—watching the aftermath of death. But what does it matter? Who cares what people see and think? We are dead, right?
But I guess what I fear is a public death. Why can’t we crawl off into the woods and die like an animal. No one will see us in a vulnerable state. But why should I care?
Somehow, even though dead, my body still matters to me. I guess it's because we can't separate ourselves from what we see in the mirror. And this is the downfall. I care more about my appearance than I do the condition of my soul that will live on forever after the death of my skin and bones.
http://www.stofel.com/
But it went up in flames and Jill tried to wake me from what she called loud snoring to come outside and look. I declined and peeped through the blinds where I discovered a world of fire trucks and hustling firemen, climbing into the flames, disappearing above the smoke—ascending and descending like Jacob’s ladder.
The sight was disarming. The underbelly of dignity escaped from the windows and doors. Open for the world to see it in a weak moment on the six o’clock news. Now people cruise the neighborhood to view the black charred place where a house used to be a home.
It's the way I imagine death. People staring and pointing while paramedics pump our chests or close our eyes the way they do in western movies. Then a cold cadaverous undertaker looks where we have remained hidden. The doors and windows flung open for the draining to begin.
And somehow I believe we will be standing in the yard—the way my neighbor stood in his—watching the aftermath of death. But what does it matter? Who cares what people see and think? We are dead, right?
But I guess what I fear is a public death. Why can’t we crawl off into the woods and die like an animal. No one will see us in a vulnerable state. But why should I care?
Somehow, even though dead, my body still matters to me. I guess it's because we can't separate ourselves from what we see in the mirror. And this is the downfall. I care more about my appearance than I do the condition of my soul that will live on forever after the death of my skin and bones.
http://www.stofel.com/
© 2007 by Robert Stofel