Life and I were a couple for many years—worked, played, and drank hard. Often promiscuous. Then one day we found ourselves with lower back pain, memory loss, and social security checks. Shortly thereafter, we discovered Death sleeping on the back porch. She was no bother at first. Mostly kept to herself during the day. She seemed to enjoy TV and laughed out loud when I told her about my long-range plans to move to Phoenix and open a car wash.

Before long the three of us were sleeping together. For hours I lay staring into the darkness. While Death snored, Life tossed a heavy leg over my thigh. And now we go everywhere together. We hold hands and take long meandering walks, me in the center. Death likes walking in the shade, Life in the light. We do a little dance—dark, light, dark, light. They’re like whining children. I try to keep them both happy.

light and shadow dance
the butterfly lingers
over a field of poppies

Bio: Dan Gilmore