He awoke at the bottom of the embankment among the trees, his car, slapped around, had come to rest probably 100 yards from the road, within the forest. He could breath, short breaths, but it hurt. He could not move his legs, in fact they were crushed, but he didn’t know cause he couldn’t look down. There was a rod or some such thing through him underneath his ribs, pinning him to the seat. His left arm was broken; he couldn’t use it to get the cell phone in that side’s pant pocket, and he wasn’t able to twist to get it with the other hand. Only with great effort and pain, did he move his right arm to his mid-section, and felt the hot wet blood that permeated the area. He didn’t struggle much. Likely it hurt too much, or he just couldn’t move, but more likely, he had correctly assessed his condition and knew that he needn't bother.
The engine kept running after the accident, and the CD player playing - his own eclectic mix. He could hear, acutely, this particular piece, a slow and harmonic piano sonata played by Sviatoslav Richter; the piece by Chopin, he thought, but he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know it’s name, if it had a name (other than Opus number such and such part I) but it was so beautiful to him. It spoke to him of who he was, who we are, what we are here for. To struggle. To experience. To teach. To be. Who wrote it, and who played it, they knew! Artists. Sages. Hearing it, he understood patience, forgiveness, courage, and strength, the latter, he perceived at last as the sum of the other attributes. He, too, now modeled this knowledge. All that came before, uncertainty, impatience, distraction, misdirection, mediocrity fell away. He now would demonstrate a way to live and die with pride, courage, dignity and peace. Those who knew him he hoped would aspire to die as well, when their times came. He believed he could influence that. We all influence others by the ways in which we live, he knew this now to be true. His remaining purpose.
The paramedics found the CD player still going, long after he had passed, a single bloody fingerprint from his right hand on the “repeat” button. It was a Herculean effort to choose the song that would play over and over again as he died. He focused on the task the way we focus on futures, jobs, careers, family. He wanted it like some want to tackle Everest, or swim the English Channel. He managed it with confidence and determination, all the while cognizant of the urgency and the deadline. He needed to get his arm to that difficult height before the CD would go on to another less appropriate tune. This would be his lifes work now, and he was proud of the success.
And he considered himself blessed. Blessed to die in peace, and thankful that he had the perfect song to die to. He was comfortable. He was not alone. He had Sviatoslav, and Chopin, if it was Chopin, but what's in a name? He wondered, would life have been preferable, if his death had consequently been less perfect? Perhaps we live only for death. Less relevant is how long we all take to get there. Despite his injuries, he looked peaceful when they found him, on his face, a subtle, it seemed, smile. Why not? He had no responsibilities. Nothing left to worry about. Nothing left to do. He had his music and his example. The pain no longer had a purpose, and so it didn’t bother him either. That he was strong enough to meet the challenge, too, was a source of pride. It didn’t matter to him how long it would take to die. It took an hour and a half. He sat there listening to the same song for an hour and a half. It could have taken forever for all he cared. A minute could have been an eternity, or an eternity, a minute. He was happy.
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