A Space of Mine Is Changed And Here Are the Remnants

The first time I experienced death, a dying death, not a silent, quick and common sort of death that comes to insects and plants but the weighty sort of death that can be measured, watched, felt, heard. Death that is an overcoming of a life still struggling to live. The kind of death that is palpable, that extends itself like a diffusing odor from the dying permeating and contaminating the atmosphere with it's oily vapor that sticks to the lungs and the roof of the mouth leaving the onlooker with a dry throat and stale taste on the tongue. I was eight.