He died over there in them bushes behind the house. Used to go out there and smoke after dinner in the evening time. Said he had a heart attack. I say it was just his time.

You know, we all have a time. Our bodies are clocks. Just waiting for the hands to stop. And, as we get older, we want those hands to stop. Folks get tired of daily routines, of hard labor all their lives, the news cast at six. There’s only so much we can take.

And, so he’d go out there every night and smoke his Marlboros, drink his cheap brandy. It was his ritual. Maybe the only thing he enjoyed anymore. You know what he once told me? He said, Life ain’t worth living if no damage has been done to your body, he said that. And he did plenty of damage let me tell you. Don’t think I ever saw him without a vice in his hand. His whittled lined hand.

Now he’s gone. You could say God took him from us. But, that wouldn’t be right. We all choose our time. We all choose our time. One way or another. We all choose our time.