This is a short story of recent deaths in my life...
"My name is Dr. Slayton," he said. He was a tall man in his seventies, wore big glasses and spoke with a strong American accent. He sat down in front of us and explained why he was to teach us instead of Mr. Mark Brady. He told us about his collapse in early October and about the months he had spent in hospital. He told us about his return to the University and how Mr. Kolar, the head of the department, didn't want to let him go on teaching. He asked each of us what our names were, what exactly we studied and why and which town/ village we were from. Then he said he wanted each of us to write a topic on a small piece of paper before each class, and then we would pick one and just talk. When we got out of the classroom forty minutes later, we smiled: "Looks like a nice guy."
He died two days later.
We saw pictures of Terri Shiavo every evening, even though the States are quite a distant country. It was on the day she died that we eventually saw pictures of what she'd been like before the accident - and it was these pictures that caused me grief.
("From fairest creatures we desire increase"* – and they lie dead before the spring is gone...)
I am not a religious person, nevertheless I doubt whether the term atheist is my case. But I had to cry yesterday (4th April) while seeing the reaction of the Christian folk throughout the world to the Pope's death. It was the principle, I guess, the genuine love these people felt for the Holy Father, that moved me to tears. And – after all – he had always been there, ever since I was born, I somehow took him for granted... And suddenly this man was nothing more than a pale cold body in a magnificent robe – and the whole world is broken.
Just when I thought it couldn't possibly be worse, I found a fresh article on one of our newspaper's website saying that Helena Zmatlikova had died that morning. This lady had dedicated her 81-year-long life to illustrating books for children. Every child in the Czech lands knows her beautiful pictures. There were some of them hung on the corridor walls of my old school and I often studied them when I was passing by.
Luckily, there is no chance that this great artist will ever be forgotten...
On 5th April 2000 my grandfather woke up, smiled at my grandmother and said: "Good morning, darling."
The day before his health had been so poor that he didn't even recognise her.
Grandma was so happy that everything was all right again that she rushed off to the kitchen to make her beloved husband proper breakfast.
However, it was not long before she heard strange sounds from the adjacent room. She ran there – and found my grandpa in blood, coughing it out together with bits of his lungs. She never had the time to call for help. He died in her arms, exactly five years ago, at the age of seventy-four.
Today, my "collective mind" lies shattered in the dust, frightened by life whose rules are unknown and its end unexpected...
* "From fairest creatures we desire increase..." William Shakespeare, Sonnet 1