The smell of rotting flesh is one you’ll not soon forget. As a young student technician in a local hospital I was confined in a small room. In that room lay a poor old woman, her foot, ankle and lower leg consumed with gangrene – rotting, dead, flesh – still attached to her frail body.
The odor was overwhelming. It wouldn’t leave me for days. It seemed just the thought of her lying there and that smell was back in my nostrils, stuck like glue.
Lately life feels the same way. Everything around me seems to have died some death or is dying. The smell of death draws fanciers of carrion – and they just seem to crawl out of the woodwork. One thing happens after another – Kafka couldn’t write this – someday I may.