Death, swathed in white cotton, occupies every room. No costumes of shimmering gold satin are worn here. No stars adorn the doors, and no placards announcing vanity can be seen. Top billing is never fought for because each player here headlines their very own marquee. The whole place flickers in a muted, florescent haze. The ugly glow echoes up and down the halls, making sure to find and shed a pale light into every nook. Past each curtain and through every pane I am treated to fine performances carried out by lingering souls struggling for life. Human beings dance here with their Maker. And somewhere lost in their swells and throws are the answers they seek but will not receive until they pass through this life's transom to the next. It is here, in this Theater Of Death, that I have come to see my father's last performance. He is once again the star of a production I never wanted to watch, but am once again forced to be a part of. As I take my rightful place backstage it has begun there, inside the glass. He is writhing and painfully agonizing over the masterpiece that is his life's closing ballet. In the Grand Hall it is standing room only, accept for the Reaper who waits patiently in his front row seat for my father's final curtain.
-Jim Franks
-Jim Franks
