A scent of death...

...permeates my lungs and the hallways of the building in which I live.

I am burning incense, as are other tenants, to relieve us of the smell of death.

The woman who lived across the hall from her did not understand the smell, after apparently almost a week.

I, who live three floors above, did not perceive the odor of death until today, because I have not been out of my apartment for several days.

Now, it remains with me...it is not 'sweet and cloying' as has been described in novels.

It is RANK and EARTHY and FOUL!

And yet, it is the odor left by a young woman, and there is not much known about her, as she apparently moved into the building only a bit more than a month ago.

I know her first name, but not her last. I don't know that I ever even saw her.

But she, this young woman, is now dead. She was 'white', but she is now, as my policeman friend described her, quite 'black'--meaning she has been dead for quite a number of days.

From observing the 'plainclothes' police who were in and out this afternoon, I would like to say this may be a homicide.

If, in fact, it is, I hope they get whomever did this and string that person up on the 'Picasso' downtown!

Somehow, I think Pablo would appreciate that!

If I had known her, I could express some immediate grief.

But I did not know her.

To her family, if they exist: My profound sympathies to you upon the death of your daughter.

That is all.

*********

UPDATE:

My guest tonight was just escorted out.

As I opened the door, the odor of death forced its way into our lungs. It is still here, the odor of death.

I am trying to stay awake...to commemorate...

...as I have these past thirteen years.

Forty years ago, at 3:31 AM, I gave birth to my second child, another son, who unfortunately, most unfortunately, was killed in a car crash in Poland in 1996, on November 28th of that year.

He was late, simply didn't want to be 'born'. But through the years, his innate talents were brought out by teachers, and me. I saw my son as a greater artist than me, yet he hid his work from me.

I'll tell you a little, true, story here. In the summer of 1983, I was hired to paint a ballet. I am not a dancer, but I have been, and was then called, the best scenic artist in the Midwest. Ask New York Designer Oliver Smith...oh, sorry, he's dead now, as are most of my cohorts from those days.

But back to my son, the younger one. He was staying with me for a while, and at thirteen-and-a-half, was overly intelligent. I could not let him off on his own, so I invited him to come and paint with me. He thought it would be 'cool'. I, of course, agreed.

So my son painted a good part of the lower backdrop for the ballet. Who knew he could manage a brush in a bamboo and stand and paint that long? But he caught on quickly, and added his own strokes to that "Swan Lake", designed by Jose Varona, a New York/Venezuela kinda guy.

Forty years ago, I was in hard labor at this time. My father and mother showed up, because my dad so wanted this child to be born on his birthday, the 11th of December. My son, though a Sagittarius, was more stubborn than his Taurus mother. He 'waited' until the 12th.

He is, no longer, except when I seem to hear his voice.

I still have another hour and almost a half to go. I'll make it, as I have done these past many years.

I love you, Rik!

UPDATE:

Welcome to the world, I said. Rik cried. And then began the sojourn of Erik, which ended in death at marker 100 in Poland, 1996.