“Your coverage has been terminated.”
Sleek men in all black suits hand over the little white envelopes.
“Your coverage has been terminated,” they say. No date. No time. Just that your time is ending soon.
The sleek men in all black occupy every day life as if on their own journey. The envelopes are just a part of their daily routine. Children are frightened, of course, until they start to realize that death is just apart of life. No one is shocked when they receive their letter. They know it’s time to start wrapping up.
My Uncle Joe had two weeks when he got his letter. Just barely enough time to sell his house and give away possessions. He was ready, his wife left just days after the vows were spoken, he just wanted to find peace with her.
Some people get their letters and it’s almost an instant and they’re gone.
“Your coverage has been terminated.” As if an all knowing being has lifted a protection over the human body. Theories surround the protection. Questions arise. Who is worthy of guaranteed protection? Are the powers that be just bored of particular lives? Do these sleek men in all black know who the letters belong to or do they just hand them out on a whim?
The sleek men in all black do not talk. They smile and nod and smirk and grimace and cry and laugh. But they do not talk. If you are handed a letter and and beg for forgiveness and gravel at their feet, they do not talk. They bow their heads and continue on.
“Your coverage has been terminated.” My letter said. Three years ago.
I wait. At first, I too passed on my possessions and prepared for ill fate. But here I’ve waited three long years and my time has not come.
I’ve studied the sleek men in all black. Followed their every move. Talked to my loved ones. Interviewed strangers. Watched people reveive their letters and crumble at my feet. A fluke perhaps. Had my letter come to early? I studied it. Read it a million times over. Retraced my steps of the day I received it.
“Your coverage has been terminated.” It said. But when?