The Pathologist

He wore death like a second skin —
an everyday occurrence in his world.
With a firm grip on his scalpel, a frosty breath escaped from his mouth.
As his tool sunk deep into the cadaver’s flesh,
the faded betadine-stained skin parted easily, void of blood.

The prosector was used to dissecting death;
it was the dissection of life that caused him pause.
Proceeding through the routine he performed a hundred times before—
charged with solving the mystery of how someone died—
instead, finding the answers to how they lived.
The body post mortem is a roadmap of life.

He meticulously examined each part of the dead woman's body.
The stomach contained the self-loathing she ate for breakfast everyday.
Calcified self-pity clogged her arteries.
Thanklessness and envy had spread like a virulent cancer
reaching out with claws that grasped and curled around her lifeless shrunken heart, squeezing it dry until crispy.

Parting the skull vault he exposed the brain.
The calvarium was lifted off with the recognizable
sound resembling the rubbing of two halves of a coconut together.
Ah yes, another case like so many others, the pathologist thought.
Layer upon layer of lifelong ingratitude was enmeshed in the meninges.

Her senses failed her in life —
for where there was plenty, she saw lack.
Where there was music, she heard discord.
Where there was sweet, she tasted the bitter.

Her soul was not present during the exam, but if it was,
it would resemble the flesh of a decaying rotten apple.
She cast herself as a victim in life.
The prescription, a simple one overlooked by many.
A healthy dose of gratitude could have saved her soul.

He sewed up the body
and recorded cause of death: Ingratitude killed her.

He finished his task and went out to the garden
with his bagel and a smear,
and washed it all down with a venti- sized cup of gratitude.
He thought about his blessings.
He knew the value of life lies in the appreciation.

The human value of gratitude
has the power to heal,
to recharge the soul.

Some call it naive, but he looks at each day anew,
filling his own soul with awe, bliss, and fascination.

He who deals with death, knows that life is,
indeed,
very very good.