I’m impaled by a witticism that wants outing.
My dad died in an old folks’ home as he was foot-scooting himself to breakfast in his wheelchair one morning. Everyone foot-scooted, no one got pushed. It was promoted as therapeutic exercise.
No one saw him die. Someone simply found him not breathing, and that was that. He didn’t make it to breakfast. I keep wondering what that transition was like for him.
Prior to that I had joined him for various meals. The food was bland in the extreme. I said to myself, “This food has committed flavorcide,” adding, “This is where taste comes to die.”
(c) 2020 JMN