The Dying Room
by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz © 2007
“Died instantly.” Don't believe it. There's a lingering.
Seconds? Minutes? you wonder.
But here, there is no measurement. There is simply a point of existence that gives way to non-existence, like the color spectrum. One can move, in either direction.
We choose the direction.
The father randomly shot down at Home Depot where he went to get lumber to build his son's tree house; the high school senior celebrating that scholarship award, drinking too much-- and just this one time-- before turning that key; the woman, on her way to a job interview, entering the intersection when it was her turn, that truck entering when it was not.
You're familiar with their stories from the evening news.
They wander among the executed, the aborted, the comatose (examples of indecision; we're not always unanimous), waiting while their faces and still-beating hearts silently plead for that One. Last. Chance.
They are told simply this: When a final decision is made, you will be summoned. You will proceed to a room. You will enter it.
When their names are called – so clear, it's sweet; a lute, promising as a piper-- they rise (Oh, they're so hopeful! And perhaps it's better that way), following the resonance of the voice, calling them.
Calling.
Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is a fiction writer and poet. Her work has appeared in online and print journals, as well as several anthologies. Visit her blog at www.gwennotes.blogspot.com