The day I died would be the first day of my life.
After all, a man’s life never truly begins
until he reaches the climax of his story,
or so the scriptures say.
I guess mine begins with a smell, and believe me,
enuresis is no laughing matter, at least not when you are twelve
and have to survive three weeks at a scout camp
while your first crush lives in the next tent.
If memory serves, it was also around that time
that I started taking liberties with certain parts
of my body. But it doesn’t really matter,
because one day you will bury this skeleton
of feeble memories with me.
The day I died would be the first day of my life
as you know it.
hidden pilcrow 