One day in May
One day in May it snowed in California. Ten inches fell across the newly reaching crops, oranges that were denied the chance to be, despite all the genetic ammunition they had been given, crying against a world and a god so cruel. And on that day in May even death was surprised at the heartlessness of the creator. He swirled in his pattern around the globe, much reflecting the cartoonish orbit of an electron, and thought that today was the day that he would do something, something to make the universe, or just a single planet, a better place. Because that day in May death recalled the millions of requests, the same wish over and over again, ‘I would give anything for just one more moment.’ And death realized that on that day in May he could give them that one more moment.
So he descended from his gyroscopic pattern next to a man who was in his sixties and he had lost his love five years before and his farm hadn’t survived the unexpected frost and he had realized just a year before that he had taken the beautiful though wrinkled woman for granted and he had squandered every moment with her as though it were something he could buy at the grocery store. And the old man saw death and somehow the frost had made him at ease. His farm long since destroyed by the banks and depression and unforgiving soil and now an infertile summer, the man looked at the creature as though he were watching a stray dog search the garbage cans for food, a little sympathetic, a little bored, a little tired, and only a little curious.
And when death told the old man that his wish, for that one moment was his, the old man, if not for the chill running over his rattled face and the fact that there was simply no moisture in that flesh, would have shown some sort of tear but rather gave a promissory note. And the old man simply said, take everything. And death saw that there was not much to take but a decrepit life that could only be described as a half-crushed caterpillar, and he said,
“So it is granted.”
And the man saw his beloved as she approached from the frozen soil that day in May and when she arrived it was as though she had never died. She simply felt as though she were approaching him from the farm fully alive, in all the benefits and faults of flesh. And as she approached the old man who had since fallen on his knees, looking up to the sun which refused to provide warmth even in May, she saw that his land held no crops. And as she often did, in her aged impatience and stunning lack of compassion, hit the old man atop his head, snarling about the lack of proper crops and his laziness and his failures. And the old man realized what he had forgotten, that flesh did indeed hold more faults than gifts, and he realized that, like flesh ages over time, so does not-flesh, that it becomes something in itself. And the old man realized what a fool he had been. And death felt the cruelness of god deep within him, and as he took the old life, he wept.
Unwilling to let his failure dictate the day, death approached a very different man. He approached what was known on earth as a very successful, very respected, investment guru who had accumulated an earthly wealth beyond reasonable measure. And despite all the imaginary money that existed in some digital world but was still able to be transformed into material goods, his son had been crushed underneath a garbage truck, racing out in the darkness of christmas morning to catch Santa dropping off his gifts. And death had written down the man’s request, that he would give his fortune for just one more moment with his son. And death saw the man, driven deeper into his quest for fulfillment though man-made, and thus inherently flawed, avenues of joy, long since being left by his wife from years of infidelity, and decided to grant such a wish.
And the man loved his son, and the man spent a day unlike any other with his son and death felt sated and he felt as though he were better than god on that day in May and so he resumed his duties. Some years later, after that day in May had ended along with the unexpected frost and devastating snow, death descended into the life of that man, anxious to relieve another bout of melancholy that often taxed his strength and made the burden of some souls too much to bear. And he found the man holding a piece of cardboard that read ‘Need money for food. Desert storm veteran.’ And though the man had never served, his sign often earned him just enough sustenance to carry that piece of cardboard into another afternoon. And death felt something, something akin to guilt despite the fact that guilt was forbidden from angels and demons, and death approached the man, querying the gift that had been given some years ago. And the man looked at death, grime erasing the wrinkles of his face, almost making him look youthful, and simply said,
“I could really use that money.”
And because of all that had happened that day in May and every effect thereafter, death never again tried to be better, more forgiving, more compassionate than god.
