Katie Hughbanks, Desert Night
In the Event of My Demise
Howie Good
I don’t sleep well. How could I? I’m worried all the time, and the media are continuously adding to the list of reasons I should be. Yesterday, during the hours-long wait between the CT scan and an appointment to review the results with my oncologist, I made a pillow of my arms in the hospital cafeteria and lay my head down. My wife, who was sitting across the table, said I fell instantly asleep. It’s not that I don’t believe her. It’s just that I wouldn’t draw too thick a line between sleep and waking life. The coffins of martyrs are carried over and over again through dusty, sunbaked streets amid the hysteria of black-robed mourners.
Howie Good
I don’t sleep well. How could I? I’m worried all the time, and the media are continuously adding to the list of reasons I should be. Yesterday, during the hours-long wait between the CT scan and an appointment to review the results with my oncologist, I made a pillow of my arms in the hospital cafeteria and lay my head down. My wife, who was sitting across the table, said I fell instantly asleep. It’s not that I don’t believe her. It’s just that I wouldn’t draw too thick a line between sleep and waking life. The coffins of martyrs are carried over and over again through dusty, sunbaked streets amid the hysteria of black-robed mourners.