Okay, okay, okay, I goofed big time; there IS life after death... or so it would appear.
While lying here like a broken clock, the sun and moon have played tag for a day a night
and a day. I know because Ive been watching... initially from inside my
corpse—which has begun to stink. Yes, for some unfathomable reason, my sense of smell
has suddenly returned, as keenly as my sense of sight. I still cant hear, taste, or,
thank God, feel anything—'Thank God' being only an expression; omnipotent beings,
singular or plural, have yet to put in an appearance. So I can tell that it's raining
somewhere, despite the blue sky overhead. There's a trace of dampened dust giving rise to
that Mother Earth scent—rich, fecund, full of promise, the aroma of renewal... in
stark contrast to my gaseous carcass leaching its foul humors yonder. Im
once-removed—if not at liberty to stray too far afield. Which strikes me as peculiar.
I mean, why, if Ive given up the ghost, is my ghost required to loiter
former host? There's nothing going on with my body of particular interest. Other than its
predictable decomposition. Frankly, I havent shifted down wind for a crime-scene
peek, not since the first red ant beat its pitter-patter path across my fixed stare. The
first of swarms, no doubt—making short-order of irises, corneas, and pupils. Why the
buzzards havent joined in remains a puzzle. Theyre up there; every now and
then a winged shadow makes its run over the rough terrain. No circlers, though. No
coyotes. Only the insects, thus far. And whatever microorganisms are consuming me from the
inside out. Im ordinarily not squeamish about such things, but when it's your
own anatomy that's puffing up, discoloring, festering under the skin, disfiguring
once-familiar features into gargoyle-like proportions, I must admit I'm more than tempted
to barf. Add to this the stench—which could render the most putrid fart fragrant by
comparison—and it's little wonder nausea has driven me to a safer distance.