A Thought Between Friends

"Nice to see you, Dr. Brinton." 

It was the truth.  Certainly, many of the medical profession gave an air of morbidity about them, quite possibly a direct result of their most prominent associate: death.  Here, in my library, amongst the forgotten and remembered dead, I could easily relate.

"And to you."

It is often asked of me if I take any particular precedence to any of my clientelle.  Here, amongst the books and the dead, I have a hard time saying I prefer any one ghost to another.  However, this "ghost" looked particularly troubled tonight.

"Is there something wrong, Doctor?" I asked.  Of course, there was the obvious.  One thing about the medical profession is that, when one realizes that no medicine has been invented to cure the inevitable, no true "reverse entropy" pill, there is a frustrated scream that echoes throughout the heavens.  No, doctors are not the most quiet of ghosts.

"Nothing, my friend."  An awkward smile that we both knew was as much a lie as any that has ever been told.  

I decided not to press the matter.   "How can I help you today, doctor?"

"Could you tell me more about a poet named Neruda?"

I laughed.  "Dear Doctor, he came a bit after you.  How did you come across the romantic?"

The doctor smiled.  "Not all my interests relate to what happens to the flesh post mortem."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that was precisely what he was remembered for: his fascination with how victims of violence often became "frozen" in their death-position, as if time had frozen the flesh in its last act.  Romance, humanity... these were not things that came to the collective memory when his name came across, but rather sudden violent brain damage mostly through gunshots through the temples, and the reaction the body tended to have after being punished in such fashion.

"No, I suppose not," was all I said in response.  

I directed him to more books on the subject that seemed to suddenly peak his curiosity.  I looked as he wandered off toward the shelves, and felt a touch of guilt.  The thought that, when confronted with darkness, the soul automatically is irevocably touched by it... as if festering in the presence of death and destruction... such was a judgment that I thought I was too intelligent to make.  

I guess, when confronted with so much death and decay, a soul longs for something... a touch more poetic, a flower to light the dark.