There are the aberrations
like your father walking out
of the house to go on an

errand and then you, a teen,
get a call that he died while
out or your wife dying in a

day when she is forty-nine
while seemingly perfectly
healthy, but then there are

the salt-box slogan “When
It Rains It Pours,” incidents
that are so unexpected and

shocking but, by virtue of
the numbers and age, some-
thing understandable (after

getting used to it) — like
friends and acquaintances
dying, going horizontal,

now shorter than the grass,
dust in the wind — old girl-
friends, old buddies from

grade school, high school,
the fraternity, classmates
in grad school — people with

whom you had lost touch but,
nevertheless, assumed were
going about their business

just as you do but don’t any-
more. And then you absently
check your pulse and shake

your head because in spite
of the frequency, it does
take some getting used to.