By Michael Orton ~

I died today… again.

Not from AIDS this time, or a heart attack like the time before, or cancer, or an aneurysm; and I certainly didn’t kill myself. Not this time.

It began in Costco when I caught a glimpse of my friend across the aisle. I said, “Hi,” and gave him a hug. His arms hung weak around my shoulders and I knew. I hesitated, not sure if I should say anything, but I felt the darkness about him.

It was happening again.

I should have cared about the horror his family would face as they watched him fade slowly away, about how his wife would survive raising their three children, about their pain growing up as I did, without a father. But for some reason, I felt only my grief at the untimely loss my friend. His pain became my own. Impulsively, I pulled him in close and said, “I’m dying.”

He stared at me like I was out of my mind. I couldn’t really blame him. After all, there I was standing before him, the picture of health.

“Oh my God, no. Why? What…” He moaned as he fought a coughing spell, his face contorted.

It was complicated. I fought a coughing spell myself. He patted me on the back and assured me that there were good doctors and incredible advances in medicine and technology that would help.

As he left, he said, “I’ll pray for you, Buddy. Hang in there.” Then he hobbled away… worried about me! I would indeed pray for him, that he might be healed and spare me my grief— my pain, and perhaps that his unselfish nature might take hold in my empathy’s void.

A few weeks later, we met for a drink. His labored breathing was now noticeable and the tightness in my own lungs squeezed firmly at my chest. I held the inhaler I’d recently purchased to my lips, sucking in three or four puffs while my friend explained how he’d made it onto several transplant lists, and how he hoped to “get the call” before time ran out. He didn’t feel sorry for himself.

I did. I went on, talking about my father, how he passed and how I didn’t want to leave my kids the way my father left me. A good friend, he listened, nodded, and sipped his drink. Then he struggled to rise from his chair, looked me in the eyes, and assured me between breaths, “Never – lose – hope.” I smiled and gazed at him as if he were a ghost when he hobbled out.

A month later, we had dinner together. I ordered the cioppino and asked for a bib after the delicious stew dripped from my trembling spoon onto my shirt. Even the oxygen tube stretched beneath my nose wasn’t enough to sate my appetite for air. My friend huffed from a similar tube running to the tank under his wheelchair.

“We are a pair,” I said. Drifting into melancholy, I recounted favorite memories. We laughed, wheezing uncontrollably as we relived our adventures. I spilled my stew again as I gasped for air. My friend gasped as well and fell to the floor… silent.

My consciousness faded to a vision of my friend, happy and free of pain.

I saw him for the last time at the funeral. He rested in his casket. I hid by the door where I could see him, everyone. It was after all, my funeral too. And so I died again, this time with a man that I once called my friend. And I waited, exhausted, for the next time.

Mike is a retired teacher currently living in Arizona. Perched on a mountaintop not so far from the Grand Canyon, he enjoys writing shorts, novels and screenplays. Mike is a member of SLO NightWriters, for writers of all genres and levels of skill.  Find them online at slonightwriters.org