I wasn’t me anymore. I just was. There were no bright lights or stuff….”
by brian doyle
Friend of mine was working on his deck on the beach a year ago
When he died. It was a wicked stormy day, he says, the rain all
Sideways, you know, and I was carrying this big mother of a beam
When I had a heart attack and went down face first on the beach.
My dog freaked out and starting licking me all over and I couldn’t
Even tell him to knock it off, you know? Felt like there was a house
Sitting on my chest. I crawled down the beach to my sister’s house
And she freaked and I started fading away. I kept saying the names
Of my wife and kids, she says, like a chant. I don’t remember that.
The emergency guys come and they cut off my shirt and they shock
Me and that doesn’t work so they rush me back out into the storm
To the hospital but I was gone. I knew I had a body but I had left it
Is as close as I can come to explaining it. There were stars all around,
Stars above me and below me and all over, and there wasn’t any time.
I wasn’t sad or anything. I was happy as a clam, to tell you the truth.
I wasn’t me anymore. I just was. There were no bright lights or stuff
Like that. Just the stars. Then I got yanked back and I knew I was back
Because my chest hurt like a bitch and someone was crushing my hand.
The first thing I thought was that I would get to see Tracy again, which
Made me real happy, and the second thing was that I would never ever
Eat a tuna sandwich again in a million years, because right before I fell
Down on the beach I ate this huge tuna sub and even the smell of tuna
Gives me the willies these days, you know? This makes Tracy laugh &
I say I came back from the stars just to hear that laugh and this makes
The kids laugh and the dog barks and it all sounds mighty good to me.
Brian Doyle is a muddled male mule who has committed eight books rather like a series of venial sins: five collections of essays, nonfiction misadventures about hearts and wine, and a collection of “proems” that the great American poet Pattiann Rogers says darkly will ruin the word poetry for ever and ever. More from Brian Doyle can be found in the Vault of Smoke.