In The Time It Takes...

She delivered the news rather matter of factly. When she had gotten sober eight years ago she and her beau had had a hard relationship; hard drinking, hard sex, hard loving and hard knocks.

But she felt that had she not sobered up she would have gradually plunged down the hole of despair, desperate drinking and debauchery, she dragging him down and him returning the favor, pounding down drinks, drugs; using hard and living hard and fast.

So she cleaned up her act eight years ago and never looked back. And every now and then she would try to bring him along, each time tentatively testing the waters and then scurrying away as if bringing the sober word to him were the bogey man of his life.

Eight years passed. Last Friday she invited him to dinner and she made another cautious attempt to bring him into the fold and at last he seemed to finally get it and made a promise to try ever so hard to approach a sober life. Today would be the day.

She went home with some nervous trepidation but hopeful at the possible breakthrough until she heard the message on the answer machine. He had thought it over and he could not see himself honestly in sobriety and was sorry that he could not breach the rift of those years of pain.

And this morning she received a phone call that he was dead.

Just like that. Dead. The rift was too great the Stygian waters too swift and deep. What he was saying was that it was too late for him, for salvation and he was checking out.

She told us this so matter of factly because death, of late in the rooms has become rather matter of fact. But life for her and the rest of us requires these precious daily reminders to keep us coming back; reminders that it takes no time at all for death to claim us - only the time it takes to go out to dinner.