Larry circled October 5th on his calendar in red.
“What’s the significance?” I asked.
“That’s the day I’m going to die,” he said.
He had been ill for months with an inoperable cancer and little hope of recovery.
“You mean suicide,” I said.
He nodded.
“But it’s perfect,” he said. “It will be a new adventure.”
I went away to think about death as an adventure. Not his death but mine. Days later when I returned from my mental desert, Larry looked weak, skeletal, wasting away. He looked nothing at all like an adventurer, except perhaps for his infectious smile.
“What’s the significance?” I asked.
“That’s the day I’m going to die,” he said.
He had been ill for months with an inoperable cancer and little hope of recovery.
“You mean suicide,” I said.
He nodded.
“But it’s perfect,” he said. “It will be a new adventure.”
I went away to think about death as an adventure. Not his death but mine. Days later when I returned from my mental desert, Larry looked weak, skeletal, wasting away. He looked nothing at all like an adventurer, except perhaps for his infectious smile.
