An Unremarkable Death

Where is the dignity?

I tumble in the shallow surf like a chunk of driftwood for hours before the receding tide leaves me stranded on the hard sand at the high-water line, empty eyes open to the sun.

Being submerged in salt water for three days is not a beauty treatment, let me tell you. By the time I wash ashore, the crabs have already started feeding on the exposed parts of my body, and the incessant abrasion from rolling on the sand and rocks near the shore flays me, shredded clothes fragments hang like rags from my carcass.

A brown kid with a stick suddenly realizes what he is poking at and runs off screaming. Then a bunch of people show up and talk about me in somber tones. I figure I’ll soon be zipped into a plastic bag, hauled off to the county morgue and be toe-tagged.

But the people leave. They just walk away down the beach, shooing their kids before them. They pack up their coolers and umbrellas and soon the beach is deserted. I lay exposed, fair game for the scavengers. Seagulls are circling overhead.

I have never given much thought to the fate of my body after I die, but I have to say, I never imagined this. This is no kind of dignity.

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