My uncle tells me he’s thinking of death, right after we order after I tuck away his walker at the hostess stand. This has to end at some point. It can’t go on forever. You’re just now thinking of that? I ask. Yes, he says. So, we talk of death; we talk of deaths: his wife, my aunt’s and my sister-in-law’s, distant now. We agree it’s better to die suddenly or in your sleep than to watch it coming. He sips his wine. Ninety-three years is a long time, I say. Oh, is it ninety-three? You know everything. We gorge on pappadam and chutney, lamb-stuffed naan, tandoori chicken and we leave the subject of death on the table with the tip and drive back to his facility. I watch the automatic doors swallow him.
Michelle Geoga is a writer and artist from Southwest Michigan. She has a BFA in art and an MFA in writing from the School of the Art Institute in Chicago. Her work has been published in the Little Patuxent Review, Third Wednesday, Unleash Lit, Cleaver and elsewhere. She was the beneficiary of a residency at Yaddo based on an early version of a novel in progress and a finalist for The Big Moose prize by Black Lawrence Press.