He hears a faint whisper blowing through the trees, a beckon, an enticement, a sexy urge to end things. But the brave man, in his worn leather wide-brimmed sun shield and faded baggy brown corduroys, whistles quietly back at Mr. Grim's request, drowning him out for a while, buying enough time to notice a few more geese flocks buzz by, to witness a few more refractions of light bounce off of the pond's surface and shatter into fractals in his mind's wondering, wandering eye.He smiles to himself, then audibly chuckles, since he knows the cosmic punch-line, the amnesiatic fate that waits for us all, as does the Reaper from beyond the yawning grave. But unlike his old pals consumed by the psychosis inducing drugs of society -- consumerism, materialism and the like -- this old dog sees through the tricks. That sleazy bastard, Death, wants us to die early for a reason, because he gets something from it, a payout, something that could be had on our end if only for a little patient waiting, a little work to live better.
Down go the slacks and off he pulls his worn sweatshirt over and past his weathered cheeks and silvered hair. His wiry muscles stay tuned despite the calendar. His iconic gaze, that of a true star, one of simplistic means and iron will, remains gripped in living.
Living well, if only to spite the old trickster, is enough for him. He likes the shape of that a la mode. He clears his mind of doubt and fear, and he dives deep into the frigid April water, through its glassy surface and over to the other side.
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