In the year 2020 for fifteen minutes, I lay clinically dead on a hospital bed. That
Quarter hour, a smidgen of my 94 years, towers over me still. While my past lay
In shadows, my now had gone awry. There were no life flashbacks in that quarter
Hour. No celestial dirge nor joyous chorales piped in for the occasion. Dreams in
That hospital bed had spread a mist that hid what I did while lying there and
Introduced a future sutured with the past. I remember those dreams now in nights
Tight with fright, jostling in my mind. Recovery brought discovery of loss: I could
Not sign my name nor turn a page. I had misplaced the letter J on my keyboard!
But hunting and pecking brought victory. Out of that childish game flickered a tiny
Flame. I began pairing words that sounded better together than apart: Rhythm and
Rhymes. In my weakened condition, I was unable to resist. And the urge persists.
Writing is now the center of each carefully calibrated day.
Had the dramatic quiet of those fifteen minutes sensitized me to the joy of small
Sounds that surround? Or was it reflective of the quiet life of incubation before birth
Which I had now experienced for the second time?
Awesome, Glen, that you're here to "tell the tale" with such powerful narrative and amazing insights.
Fascinating, Glen - particularly the final stanza ....