Three different men, with three different sufferings, and how a tiny, pink Barbie shoe changed their souls.
I lay restlessly in a shallow grave awaiting the Day of the Dead, when my soul will rise to join a tide of others seeking a warm brush with the land of the living ~ one embrace, one more wish for a good trip, one last kiss good-bye.
Like a tall oak that finally lost its powerful clutch of the earth and slumped to the forest floor during the night, or a grandfather clock that had not been wound and gave its last declaration at midnight, the man was gone.
There are some who, like Ophelia, fall into water and drown, their pale hands frantically waving inches below the glassy surface, as if to grasp the bright world beyond and pull it down around them. Those who breathe air and not water pass by and look, but cannot see what lies beneath.
In some freakish explosion of accelerated evolution borne in a cauldron of sea water, fire, and Old Bay seasoning, the clams had not only sprouted eyes but crude, crab-like legs, enabling them to scurry out of the fire and into the nooks and crannies of the campsite.