l.
My roommate calls me at 3:30 AM from his bedroomon the opposite side of the house, he tells meof a sudden sink hole, took out sections of local highway
and stopped traffic for miles, then he tells meof a Tampa man who was swallowed up entirelyby a sinkhole, no trace of his body was ever found.
He worries about such things: sinkholes, proliferationof pythons and dying alone. A 50-year-old bachelor, the only womanhe ever fancied moved to Texas, no forwarding address.
ll.
One of three brothers, one of three sons, he tells me, one Sundayhis oldest brother choked him unconscious onto the kitchen floorjust to see what might happen. Never any explanation. never an apology.
A zookeeper, he tends to wild creatures, bred in captivity,he tells me he gives eye drops to rhinos, makes a cup outof a banana peel and there in hides pills for the water buffalo.
He spoils my three dogs with baby talk, he croons to themWhere have you been all my life or We’re just onebig happy family. They wait at the door, quiver at his touch.
lll.
He checks on a coworker who routinely swears she’ll stop but stilldrinks, falls and passes out. He finds her face down on the kitchen floor,dried blood in her hair. Her three bewildered dogs, flea-ridden and starving.
He worries that she will die, that no one will find her for daysthat the dogs will have to be given away, or worse, sohe mops her floor, helps her to bathe, supplies cartons of Marlboros.
He worries about his own sinkholes of age, loneliness,and of disappearing, never being found. I give assurancesbut we both know I cannot keep my promise to outlive him.
Photo by Mike Szczepanski on Unsplash