My feeble hopes embarrass me:
that she died quickly with minimal pain
(define "minimal"). That she found
the tunnel of light pleasing. That
friends found her pets, if any, alive
and saw to their care. That . . . .
She clocked in but didn't clock out.
She sat alive, then dead, for four days
while electrons of her colleagues
who worked from home flitted around her.
"There are worse ways to go," I think,
followed by "Oh, shut up." Media told
the story only because it
is click-bait. I clicked. Her name
is Denise Prudhomme.
