37 Down

I'm blinded by news.
Struck with awe in some terrible way.
Speechless when I see the words.
Caught silenced when I hear them.

You never know what to expect, but you never expect it to be this.
Your life folded in on itself, one day placed on another, then another, then another.
Until all of your days are just one crinkled mess of a life, sports and movie reviews and business, coalesced into one jumble under a single headline.

You begin above the fold, never expecting to be continued on 13B.
Your life's shining moments, mere advertisements for times yet to come, wrapped in the details of your daily reports.
You're not even featured on the byline.
Someone else, after all, will be the one writing your story.

Somedays, you peruse the obits, reading the final stories of those you have known and loved.
But you never get to read your own.

I always knew this story would show up one day.
I guess I had hoped it would be more of a story.
But even the biggest headlines are just forgotten bold font eventually.
Special exclusives and footnotes for the week torn and thrown together at the bottom of the hamster cage.
Glued one strip on another for a paper mache mask.

37 Down

My life, and yours, and the used car that they're taking another $1,000 all wadded together and thrown out with the night's leftovers.

It's crazy to think, the most famous I'll even be is now, when the entire town is reading 200 words or less that sum up my entire legacy.

And where to send flowers.