It's What You Get For Dying On Me by John Grey
IT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR DYING ON ME She lies in bed, near death, her face pale as a wedding veil. I used to think of death as Africa, a country so far, so mysterious, where I or no one I knew would ever set foot. A wedding veil? I must be recalling the photograph in the album - half her face hidden in lace. And Africa... a car stops at a red light, its speakers thumping like jungle drums. Only the past wears wedding veils now. Today's bride must be seen to be believed. And Africa is front and center in the brochure I pick up from the travel agency. I can get there in a heartbeat, not in a heart that beats no more. Beliefs don't die. They just get more ridiculous. And comparisons don't wear so well. Or are lifetimes out of fashion. Here is someone with the sense draining out of her, who cannot speak or remember, whose arm-tubes feed her like she's in a womb. Ah, babies -there was one -just one - snapshot ...