I remember it was November a few years ago. I'd been at work all day, and through part of the evening. It was a routine sort of day. Until, I got one of those phone calls, the type that everyone dreads. My mom's trembling voice was on the other end, struggling to exhale her words, "Grandpa, is in the hospital. He's on a ventilator, they're keeping him alive until the family arrives. Can you make it here?" "Of course." CLICK. Thirty minutes later, I pulled aside a hanging cloth door and stepped into another dimension. Twenty of my family members, cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers, parents, grandparent were all standing in a tight perimeter, circling my dying grandfather. The machines beeped rhythmically, pale blue tubes ran down his throat, as I watched his chest peacefully rise and fall like waves rolling through the surf.
     It was one of the most beautiful nights of my life, and yet I'll forever miss my grandfather. Death is something that units us all, while at the same time it separates us. What if you had some fix on the events of your life? The ability to have a conversation with yourself on your death bed, what questions would you have? I wonder what my grandfather would have said, if he had the opportunity to give a younger version of himself some advice. Bacon and beer won't kill you. Jorge Loius Borges August 25, 1983 tells of how one man has the chance to talk to himself on his death day. The story is written with rich environmental detail. Bringing to life an interesting concept, to know the totality of your accomplishments. It really intensifies destinies role. When the younger version defies the older version of himself, claiming he won't fulfill some of the events that has lead him to this death bed, the older version says matter of factly, "Yes you will." Once the ball is rolling its hard to stop it. We find the same thing in Dino Buzzati's The Falling Girl.
    A young girl hurls herself off of a skyscraper, in a contradictory rush to reach the bottom. The main character acknowledges that there is no going back, there is no stopping our march towards death. She has the strength to momentarily slow down, which I find interesting, it may point to the things she was missing from life. Her desires to have more time for romantic pursuits, as she slows for the gentlemen on a balcony and taps him on the nose. Never escaping the relenting pull of gravity, which is used as a metaphor for death. Are we being pulled to it? Or is it rushing towards us? That cataclysmic collision is mind shattering, life ending, life bringing, mind altering, rushing and exploding, brilliantly, and radiantly, the star ashes twinkle, full of secrets.