Death and The Man by Will Mayo (1960-2022) I feel Death coming near. It’s in the little things. The way, for instance, I can see the flowers grow and bloom and fade with the passage of time. The way those old black crows fly over my seat from behind the house. The way I scan the obituaries in the local papers, looking for familiar faces. Death is walking by. When he comes does not matter. He may arrive at my doorstep this afternoon to exchange a scant few words over a coffee or two before dispatching me to the land of the gods. Or he may well wait, showing up in some nursing home in a forgotten county 50 years hence to send me to the place he chooses. He bides his time, this man Death. But when he does come, this I know, friend Reader. I shall depart this earth as it turns in the midst of where I have been. And a majestic tree, oak or pine, shall rise above my grave, soaring to the heavens like those songbirds I have long admired. There, the people of the town and county in which I have lived will arrive to wonder from whence I have come. Surely then will the gods be proud of me. —— A long-winded farewell: I won’t pretend to speak for the gods, only myself when I say that I’m proud of you Will. Even from your hiding place, you touched so many people’s hearts with your mind. Your words crept like water out of the cracks of your disheveled cave, passed the stacks of books lining the walls that your 6-toed kitten, Velvet, braved to climb. Out through the blinds you’d draw to keep the sunlight away, into the open air and down the streets of Frederick, the ones you called home. Your words took you to lands that you never stepped foot in, brushed the cheek of beautiful women you only had the pleasure of dreaming about in your rotten head and brought tears to the eyes of those who loved you from afar. I believe that a body is nothing more than a place to hold the soul until it’s ready to ramble on. And I will think of you every crescent moon, until next time my friend. -L