Snow Follows the Plow

He was down, and there was no getting up.

This was the end.

 

Yet Lawrence’s body staggered on.

 

“Good luck!” he called after it.

 

And then he murmured, “Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee” and “Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy whom, Jesus,” and “Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee” and “Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy whom, Jesus.”

 

His body didn’t get far though, and it dropped down on all fours and crawled.

 

And barely had enough energy to roll over onto its back.

 

Something moving in its guts.

 

Something alive moving around and trying to get out.

 

Something that had been living in the dark world of his guts for seventy-one years was trying to get out.

 

Like a baby trying to get out at the moment he was dying.

 

Lawrence was giving birth to something, and there was no turning back.

 

He felt a ruffling in his chest.

 

Something pecking at his breastbone.

 

It cracked.