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As a child, he reconciled a mother with her daughter by asking a naive question. “Do you want to die angry at her?” he asked. And with that, he completed his life’s work but continued living for thousands of insignificant days with nothing to do but digest resources and blindly gaze on the loveliness of the earth. To pass the time, he taught himself to conjure complex flavors in his kitchen. While his garden thrived, he merely survived the seasons. He grappled with partners on whatever bed was nearest, once each. And while his landscaping matured, his attitudes grew thorns until his friends stopped calling. Without much interest or insight, he ran another man’s business, which prospered despite his guidance, rebounded with the economy, and was absorbed by an abstract conglomerate that immediately severenced him. Already superfluous, now also redundant, he nevertheless lived on, collecting dividends and stacking up honors like boardroom chairs. He told risky jokes in mixed company with mixed results, texted recklessly, and died in a Truth-or-Dare wildlife incident without redeeming a penny of his pension. His loves were many if shallow, and his passions were varied if a little oblique, but the good earth never took to him. He left behind a modest estate and a widow who was mostly annoyed. Once he had kept his appointment with the mother and her daughter, once he had asked his question, he could have misspent his life anywhere he chose, failed at any enterprise, followed any impulse. Nothing could have undone his achievement. As for the mother and daughter, they drowned together in a lifeboat, or just outside a lifeboat, but together, thus completing their life’s work, not by reconciling—that was his job—but by reminding him briefly, as alligators devoured him, of all that he had accomplished.

Original Copyright © 1999
Revised Copyright © March 25, 2026