Where He Was Meant to Be Born
He was born on the wrong planet. He wasn’t meant to breathe oxygen and shit excrement, to walk on his hind legs and save whales; to pray to the infant Jesus.
There weren’t any whales where he was meant to be born, no baby deities, no legs and no digestive tracts. Consequently nothing eatable, no oceans and no air. Nothing exists without purpose — here, there or anywhere.
There wasn’t much of anything where he was meant to be born, and only one type of creature, what he was meant to be, something hard for us to wrap out heads around.
You’d think he’d thank his lucky stars, being born here and not there, but no one’s happy being born where they weren’t meant to be.
He’d dream about the place where he was meant to be born and wake up crying, softly, so as not to wake his wife or the children in the next room. Then he’d go into the bathroom and drink water straight from the tap, stare at his face in the mirror, sometimes for hours.
They found him hanging in the garage one morning with a smile on his face, something (the smile) the coroner said was unheard of.
At least here.