The Death of Maria Chavarria: One Man's Journey from Doctor to Damnation
John G. Deaton, MD

The other person had become critically ill, miraculously recovered, and touched him in a rare exultation. He thought it the most profound event of his life. Seeing her there on Saturday morning proved it, and yet he could not think of the words to express what was bursting his heart into such delicious morsels of joy. She was his poetry, his adjectives, his nouns. She cut the bondages of his exile, releasing him. She was his derring-do, his debonair, his trove of accolades in a place where words coined by others were too blooming laughable to apply. He laughed in joy even as an angel stilled his voice, and he understood in that moment why we have gods, why we must trust in the beyond, why we must leap from the mundane to the exquisite on the sorry crutch of words, rather like reaching for manna from heaven and coming up with a lop-eared jackrabbit instead. Let it gnaw! Let it rise about the plummeting plains to snip at the gnats of the unwavering tedium, that distant facade. "Dr. Deaton," she said, "I saw you last night! I saw your wife, she is so beautiful! And your little boy? Oh, so cute! You lucky, you have the fine family, you have everythihg!"