People die all the time on a Monday because the science behind it is so elegant. One more thing crossed off the to-do list: brush your teeth, make coffee, catch a glimpse of your own ghost in the kitchen. On time for once & well-dressed too! But wait, is this yours or someone else’s philosophy? Because after work & walking to your car, a small child once tugged at the hem of your dress. Told you Monday is the only day nearest & furthest the Sabbath. What a peculiar thing to say, you thought. What a peculiar thing to find a child, happy & abandoned, in a parking lot. Deep down, you wish to be that child. That good omen parachuted like chocolate or canned soup from the sky. Good luck with that, someone says. You weren’t very popular in high school & so it’s more than likely your death, too, will be a matter of gossip. Friends will send your mother the wrong kind of flowers & spell your name with an extra “e.” But she was so lovely, they’ll say—so kind. & your mother will believe them because every death, as every sorrow, is as vague as the color blue. Egyptian blue. Royal blue. Blue as the blue of Franz Marc’s horses. But you already knew that. As you knew your own heart will never muster enough strength to keep you company. Which is why driving home, you move slow past the scene of every accident just to see who’s dead.
