the time I was eighteen years old, I had escaped
the clutch of death not once, nor twice, but
Remembering this constantly reminds me that
perhaps there’s something still meant for my
life down here, or at least that’s how I like to
think of it anyway.
Only God can really say, I suppose; I mean after
all…I could croak tomorrow and then what would
these words mean? Yet I prefer to dream
and aspire that there’s something meant of my
existence…an existence that was first nearly cut
completely on a dusty African plain called
I was one year old, and it was my families very
first year to live on the wide and rural plains
We were great preparers…we had all of our shots,
filtered our water AND took our regular doses of
Yet somehow, I guess through the pesky bite of a
hungry mosquito one night, my baby self came
down hard with one of the greatest and
stealthiest killers on earth…Malaria.
Obviously, this is one memory for which I cannot
remember…but my mother told me she was afraid
they would lose me those days as I lay
motionlessly draped in her arms. But God
spared me, and life was good…full of explorative
adventures and beautiful sunsets…and playing in
the rarely coming rain.
I turned seven years old and death decided to
come calling yet again.