Last Dance

Thursday March 13, At sea.

“Bright Star, Cabin 2641, Cabin 2641. Bright Star, Cabin 2641, Cabin 2641.” I’m walking my 3 miles around the deck when I hear this announcement over the loud speaker. I turn to the man who has fallen into step with me——we’d been exchanging the usual plesantries—and say, “This does not sound like a good thing.” I know there is trouble in Cabin 2641. “Bright Star, interesting euphemism for an emergency, “ I say. My cabin is a few doors down from the infirmary, which usually has its door wide open. As I pass by to change, the doors are closed and a note says ‘Closed until further notice’. I feel that things are not going well inside. And indeed, later that day it gets around that the Bright Star event resulted in a death. I wonder where they keep the body until the next port, and I send blessings to the poor wife who’s dream, around-the-world, voyage with her husband is their last.