The Year of Dying
Only 2% of Americans are officially designated as farmers. The reality is worse.
A kite or hawk swooped down and sunk its claws deep into Fudge Pie’s skull, breaking her neck.
It takes concentration and effort to leave this world.
This past year seemed to have taken up dying as its prevailing theme, at least here at our house. The business I launched eight years ago and grew to employ six writers at our peak is slowly dying. A company is not a person. But a small, family business, as ours was, has a life of its own, and when the people who made it what it is are let go, the death is palpable. We wrote dialogue for video-game characters for a living. Our voice actors gave each character speech. The laughter we shared on table reads, the spirit we breathed into tiny screen images — those had an energy, and that energy has now gone cold and dark. Dormant, like the earth in winter. The business of dying, too, is serious. My cousin Joel was dying of cancer. He and his wife kept birds, and in the final weeks of his life he requested the birds be homed elsewhere so that he could die in quiet. It takes concentration and effort to leave this world, as I have seen in other people who are dying. My husband’s mother, when …
