Nothing Wrong
He was the first to go.
It was always the old. The young were too precious. Too vulnerable. And far too naïve.
But there was nothing wrong with that.
It would be a celebration, really. Nothing wrong. Not even he would remember what was to come. What would become of him.
People would hug and say their parts, meeting with friends and family. Kids would listen to stories by the old man and run around chasing each other. Nothing unusual. Nothing wrong.
There would be processions and parties and food and dancing-all sorts of wonderful fun and games. And no one would remember what was going to happen. Because there was nothing wrong.
And when it was all over-all the food eaten and bellies distended, all the drink drunk, all the games won, all the parties and excitement over- people would go home, pouring through the streets, and curling up in their warm beds as though nothing was out of the ordinary. Nothing wrong.
The late night laborers would come through the warm, heat retaining asphalt ribbons, and pick up all the empty food wrappers and papers and soda cans and beer bottles and every other kind of trash imaginable. Maybe, if they were lucky, one of them would find a more expensive trinket someone had lost. Then they would take it home as their own, as though it had never belonged to anyone but them. Like nothing was wrong.
And the streets would quiet down slowly, the occasional car rolling by, or cat yowl, or dog barking furiously at the moon, but that would be nothing. It was always like that. There was nothing wrong with normalcy.
The house lights would go out, and the street lights would come on, and everyone would be at rest, just like every night, when nothing was wrong.
And in the morning, the city as it was the morning before, the old man would be gone. Far away, into a new land. He would get to wear his favorite color clothing-Tan and Olive. The place he was going would supply him with the latest fashion in boots and belts and shirts and pants and even hair. Everyone wore the newest rage in hairstyles there. Nothing wrong in the latest styles!
He would eat a new variety of foods that would be guaranteed to help him keep his figure. He would learn how to use a jungle gym the right way (no one knew they’d all been doing it wrong for ages), and then play on the biggest one of his life. He’d roll in the dirt and dance in the rain, and even be allowed to wrestle in the mud. And how could anything be wrong if there was that much fun to be had? It couldn’t. So nothing was wrong.
He would meet new friends, and be allowed to talk really loud indoors and outdoors. Sometimes, he might get in trouble. And then people would yell at him, and confront him. But that was okay. That happened anywhere. So it really meant that nothing was wrong.
And then… he would have to leave. And go somewhere else. Where, he did not know. It was a surprise, they said. He liked surprises. Didn’t everyone? Didn’t that mean that nothing was wrong?
He might get a little hurt, they said. Maybe bang up a knee or scrape an elbow. But that was normal anywhere. It just meant that nothing was wrong. If you bled a little bit, but had fun doing it, wasn’t that the point of living?
So it all simply meant that nothing was wrong.
Didn’t it?
