Terminal

I cruised out of town, took Dogtown Road, and drove through the woods and up to the top of The Hill. We called it The Hill because you could see the entire town from the top of it. I parked, turned off the truck, and just sat there, looking down on everything. I’d always wanted to see more of the world, but I’d never had the chance. Now I never would. This was my world, this town, these woods and fields. They were my world and not for much longer. Michelle and I had always talked about going on vacation; something within a day’s drive—maybe a trip to Washington, DC, to see the White House and let T. J. gawk at the dinosaur bones in the Smithsonian, or head down to Baltimore to visit the Inner Harbor and take T. J. to the National Aquarium. We’d never had the money to do it though, and even if we had, the foundry paid me at the end of the year for any unused vacation time— and that money came in handy. I found myself wishing now that we’d gone, that we’d visited the museums and the attractions. I imagined lifting T. J. up to see the sharks at the aquarium, or maybe holding Michelle around the waist and staring at the nation’s capitol at nighttime from our hotel balcony, and looking out at all the lights. She liked romantic stuff like that, and to be honest, so did I (though I’d never admit it to John or Sherm— especially not to Sherm). Another headache kicked in then, this one so bad that it made my teeth hurt. I tried cracking the joints in my neck and rubbing my temples, but it refused to go away. Resolved to suffer, I got out of the truck and stood at the top of the hill, stepping to the edge and silently watching my world below. A breeze rustled through the leaves overhead, and I thought about how it felt on my skin, that cool air. It felt good. It felt so damn good. I didn’t want it to end— just wanted that wind to keep blowing forever. I would miss the breeze when it was gone. I can’t describe it. It was just one of those little things we all take for granted, you know? We never think about the air we’re breathing or how we actually breathe it— our lungs working twenty-four/seven without us ever consciously willing them to.

But the breeze never dies, does it? It just moves on, unlike us. Eventually we stop moving. I watched the treetops sway in the wind. The leaves were new and green. Just a few months ago, everything had been white and brown and barren. Now the snow was gone, and the whole countryside was alive. A dandelion grew at my feet, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Without thinking, I plucked it from the ground and brought it to my nose— killing it. For a second, I felt guilty about that. I couldn’t smell its scent at all so I let it slip from my fingers.

* * *

When I was a kid, one of my mom’s boyfriends was a big Iron Maiden fan. He’d listen to them all the time while working on his car or puttering around the house. Being a hip-hop fan, I was never into heavy metal, but a snatch of lyric came back to me now: “As soon as you’re born, you’re dying.” I hadn’t understood the line at the time, and he’d explained to me that from the very moment we’re born, our cells begin to break down, effectively starting the dying process. It continues all of our lives, until we’re old and gray. It was happening inside me as I stood there on the hill, except that while my good cells were dying, bad cells were growing; growing at an alarming rate, according to the doctor.

I glanced down at the ground. Michelle and I had once made love on that very spot when we were in high school. We’d stopped coming to The Hill after we got married, but sometimes we’d joke about dropping by again, just for old times’ sake. Now we never would. That was when the full enormity of it sank in, hitting me with the impact of an airplane slamming into the ground. I sank to my knees.

Soon, I wouldn’t feel the wind in my hair and see the green leaves sprouting or the dandelions blooming. I wouldn’t feel the sun or be able to watch the clouds floating by overhead. I would never attend my high school reunion and laugh at those same National Honor Society shitheads who I’d sold pot to, the same ones who were working in fast-food joints or selling used cars now. Michelle and I wouldn’t be going on vacation, or even to the bowling alley, and John and Sherm were going to have to hang out by themselves at Murphy’s Place on Friday nights, and my foreman was going to have to find somebody else to run the Number Two molding machine at the foundry, because I wasn’t going to be doing it for much longer. I wouldn’t be standing there for eight to ten hours a day, wincing every time a hot piece of metal landed on my arm, or picking foundry dirt out of my teeth and ears, or rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet because they hurt from standing so long, and even that I would miss because feeling pain at least meant that I was still alive.