A journal of narrative writing.
What to Wear on the Day I Might Die

Listen to “What to Wear on the Day I Might Die”
read by Emari DiGiorgio

It might rile up the bull, but any gypsy grandmother who worships the malocchio knows red resists evil. Hidden beneath clothes like a narcís slim-fit Kevlar vest, or on the outside like a badge. On the day I might die, I spurn sensible shoes. I once sprinted eight long Manhattan blocks in boots to catch the last Jersey bound bus from Port Authority. Chest heaving past Hoboken. If the threat scrawled in the middle stall of the men’s room is real, a pack of kids might pull semi-automatic assault rifles from lacrosse bags at noon. A pipe bomb planted in the decorative cabbages could detonate when I park. But the reaper could be a god-loving high school flutist who forgets the right of way, or my good heart might implode, like the fit young quarterback’s from Kansas State. How quickly the crowd moves to blame the coach, the game, the parents. Consider the terror of the young boy from Tafalla, who must’ve watched the bull struggle in the electric fence, before it jumped from the arena to the stands, trampling him. Iíve never wanted to be a bullfighter, but I imagine I could stick the banderillas in the bull’s shoulder and neck. Not out of ritual or performance, not for art, unless staying alive is art. Which is what I’ll tell myself, crouched in a dumpster as a trenched youth helicopters across campus.