On Monday, you meet Death. It's stupid, the way you almost die - you're wearing a scarf on a rollercoaster and you nearly hang yourself.
"Don't worry about it," she says. "'Almost', 'nearly' - those are all words for 'not'."
One, two, three. One, two, three, four, five. You count the seconds you are unable to breathe, then count the breaths you gasp in when Death finally moves out of your sight.
You think, then, that's it's not your death that is full of 'nearly's but your life that's full of 'not's.
Sixteen, seventeen. Your near-death has taught you to count. You are always taking stock:
- Suffocation.
- Breath.
- The petals on her sunflower.
- The unsteady steps you take from the hospital bed.
- Your heartbeat at night. Your heartbeat when you wake. Your heartbeat. Always.
- The rays of light limning your bedroom floor through the slats of your window.
- The fibres of your red scarf, soft wool between your fingers, slightly damp.
- Two hundred and two. Your heartbeat.
- The number of clocks in your house.
- You realise then that counting up is the same as counting down. How many bicycles will you see before you die? How many heartbeats? How many rainfalls? How many petals?
- How far up can you count?
- The solution, or the placation: Maximise your count. Of everything.
