The aroma will not escape me.
Sitting with a couple lying together in the bed waiting to see who goes first ... standing in the kitchen beside a lady in her nightgown stirring the Butterbeans to make sure they don't burn ... to the old man smoking his cigarette smirking as he explains, "The problem is I'm not dying fast enough for the system but ... I'm not in a hurry" ... the rotting, sticky smell refuses to dissipate.
"This just sucks," I say to God climbing in my car, slumping behind the wheel and struggling to find energy to keep moving.
God doesn't reply.
The memory of my Dad dying at Hospice comes to life.
I'd spent the night with him and when my family arrived early in the morning, I took a shower, dressed, joined everyone at the bedside and Dad decides it's the perfect time to go.
So he does.
I'm trying to remember the smell.
My friend Monty says, "You look Death square in the eye and don't back away. It's not right."
Having never claimed to be right ... that's the landscape of Politicians and Preachers ... I do believe death's just part of life.
Too many are premature exits ... most are not-so-grand finales ... and there's a handful we can't stop talking about.
"You can do everything right to take care of yourself," I'm fond of saying. "Eat properly, work out, don't drink too much, stay away from the stupid stuff ... and it adds on average 17 minutes to your life."
"Well I want those 17 minutes," my wife fires back with a direct hit.
We have an $8 lunch date at Kentucky Fried Chicken, splitting a box, relishing in each other alone for the first time in what seems like forever though it's only about 17 minutes.
She is stunningly beautiful.
I am grateful to simply be here.
But that damn smell just hangs in the air, hovering directly over God's silence.
