Don't just let that thought simmer. Expunge it with a comment.
Commenting is not available in this sections entry.Death becomes you
My Godmother had been diagnosed as having cancer. They gave her 5 years to live. She had started to fade rather quickly about a year before. I had lost contact with her. As a child we had spent one or two days a week with her family, watching this new thing called television. It would be an occasion when we’d pack ourselves in warm coats after dinner and head off to the Migliorisi’s to watch the television.
It was a time when magic happened to be in black and white. There wasn’t any particular show we’d go to see, we just went to watch “television.” This was the family that had accepted us as part of theirs. Our entire family was in Italy, here we were an extension of the Migliorisi clan. I called the adults uncles and aunties. My godmother’s young son, Neil, and I were the same age and were close until we went our own ways.
On this particular night, my mother expressed her desire that I go see my godmother. It seemed she wouldn’t last much longer. I remember walking into the hospital room. A few people lined the walls, Neil, my godfather, a few others. They looked at me with strained smiles.
Something wriggled in the bed. If I’d looked there first, I would have thought I’d entered the wrong room. It was my godmother. The name on the wall said it was her. The patient’s folder at the end of the bed had her name on it. But the person lying on the bed wasn’t her. She had been replaced by a sinewy-thin collection of skin and bones.
Arms, legs and hands seemed unconnected, movements happened at their own twitchy will. The eyes were glazed over and searching from wall to wall for nothing. They saw nothing. The single white sheet had once been crisp and clean, but now it was crushed by the constant movement. I said my hellos to the silent crowd.
I touched my Godmother’s hand. It was cold and unresponsive to the touch. I squeezed it gently as if to communicate through touch. The twitching stopped for a moment. The face turned. Deep, black eyes stared in recognition for an instant. I squeezed a “goodbye” through my hand. The eyes rolled away and a glazed, vacant stare looked back. Then, there was nothing there.
If you looked hard enough, you could see a reflection of a path and along that path Death was making its way toward us. My godmother died that night.
citizenjoe has been around for quite a long time and when I say he has been around, I mean he has been around. He likes writing and enjoys hanging out with this motley bunch of characters.
Lionel Gherkin is a sad sack with good reason, the poor bastard. You can read why in 
Along for the ride is Shelby Wright. Shelby is ahighly respected and well-to-do-man-about-town. He is the group's cultural attache; its conscience but not really its heart. 
And let's not forget Brenda Spoon. The lovely of the group. She a humourous bone that'll grab you like a meat hook and then tenderise like a piece of steak. People tell me she's hilarious; and who knows, one day I may even laugh at them.