"Yes. Yes we do!" My brother and I would answer together at the same time.

     Then they'd usually try to get rid of us by saying something like, "You don't want to know what dying feels like. You boys are too young and shouldn't be thinking about such things. Now go outside and play in the sunshine." 

     Usually that's when they'd groan again.

     But wait, before I go on, let me tell you about me and my brother.

     My name is Dillan. My brother's name was Dorango. I think my ol' man named him after Durango, Colorado and he just spelled it wrong, but I never asked him. I couldn't because when he left us, my ol' man, we was only six years old. I wasn't smart enough at six years old to ask him if he spelled Dorangos name right. I wasn't smart enough to ask too many questions at that age I reckon. Anyway, we was twins, my brother and me. I say was because he's long been dead now, my brother. He died when we was nineteen. And that is surely a long time ago since I am 87. Was the saddest day of my life. Can you imagine that? The only twin brother you ever got, up and dying on you when you're only nineteen years old. Doesn't seem right somehow. Anyway, he did and that was that. 

     I sure did love my brother. When we was young, they called us the Dill-Do twins. We always laughed along with them when they called us that because, being young and all, we didn't know what it meant. Of course when we grew up and found out what it meant, then everyone stopped calling us that. At least to our face they did. I reckon because we were pretty big and everyone knew if they called us the Dill-Do twins we'd kick the crap out of them. But everyone still called me Dill and my brother Do and that was all right by us.

     OK, so back to the story. I told you about the part how my dad left when we was six right? OK. No, I don't know why he left. One night he told ma he was thirsty and he left and he never came home and that was that. Dorango always thought he went to Colorado to be a cowboy. We almost ran away once to go there and find him, but we never did. 

     So after he left, my ma had a hard time feeding two growing boys and keeping the roof over our head. A fact she reminded us of nearly every day. So she took to taking care of the old folks around town. It was like baby sitting except instead of taking care of babies, she took care of the old and sick folks who were dying. They'd come and stay in our house and she'd feed them, or try to, and change their diapers and give them medicine and sometimes just hold their hands while they cried. Until sooner or later, they'd die and then she'd get another one. Someone paid her to have all those dying people in our house, but I'm not sure who. As I said before, when I was a youngin', I wasn't smart enough to ask too many questions.

     If my brother and I were bored and hanging around the house bothering my mother, usually it was on a day when there was bad weather outside because if it was nice out, we usually were out and about getting into some sort of trouble. But if the weather was bad and we were inside and we were troubling my mother, she'd tell us to go and sit with the person who was dying and be nice. She told us that God would repay our kindness someday and of course we believed her. We tried to be kind, we really did, but it would get terribly boring sitting next to an old person who smelled and groaned. And I don't think they much wanted to talk to two young boys either.

     My brother, Do, was the one who came up the idea about talking about death. He was awful curious about it. I never knew why. Never asked him.

     I do remember the first time he asked someone about it. It was old Mrs. Jackson. She must've been about 120 years old, at least she looked that old with her skin as thin and white as the thin skin of an onion. And wrinkles, Lord she had wrinkles. Her lips looked like two, tiny, old, wrinkled raisins. I remember her lying there on the bed, holding her cross on her chest with her two thin wrinkled white hands, and I remember my brother asking her in a quiet voice that was almost a whisper, "Are you going to die?" And I knew, even at that young age, that that was something you weren't suppose to talk about, but it was a good question and I wanted to hear the answer, so I kept my mouth shut.

     At first she motioned with her hand, like you would to chase a fly away. I think she wanted us to leave, but we didn't. We sat there beside her bed and my brother asked her again, this time he tapped her on the arm in case she was sleeping, "Mrs. Jackson, excuse me," he said, "but are you going to die?"

     For a few moments she didn't do anything but breathe. We could tell she was breathing because we could hear it. She made a hissing noise. Then one tiny tear ran down the side of her cheek. And that's when she nodded. Her head, that looked too large for her skinny, wrinkled, turtle-like neck, her head nodded.

     Then her lips moved. Slowly they moved and she said each word very carefully.

     "Yes," she said, "Yes I am going to die."

     That's when my brother asked the next question, "Would you mind telling us how it feels?" 
 
     "You don't want to know," she said, "You're too young. Now go along outside and play in the sunshine." She shooed us with one hand again.

     "It's not sunny out. It's raining," my brother replied. I sat there and was quiet, hoping she'd answer. My brother, Do asked again, "Would you please tell us what it feels like?"

     "I don't want to say because you'll think I'm crazy," she said.

     "No, we won't, we promise. Please tell us," my brother was talking in his most politest voice. I hardly recognized that it was my brother Do doing the talking.

     "Do you really want to know?" she said. They always asked that question one more time just in case we'd changed our minds.

     "Yes!" we'd both say at the same time. It was the only time I'd talk, otherwise, Do did all the talking.

     She lay there quietly for a few minutes. We could tell she was trying to figure out a way to explain it to us.

     "It feels like," she paused.

     We waited, holding our breath.

     "It feels like nails," she said.

     "Nails?" my brother asked.

     "Yes, nails. It feels as if you have nails in your mouth."

     My brother looked at me and we got real wide eyes and almost burst out laughing, but we didn't. 

     She continued. "If feels like you have a whole lot of nails in your mouth. It's prickly like that and it tastes like that."

     That night, after we ate dinner and before my ma did the dishes, she went to check on Mrs. Jackson and she was cold dead. My brother and I never told anyone what Mrs. Johnson had told us.

     After that, we got to liking asking people who were about to die, what it felt like. They wouldn't always tell us, but when they did, they always said the same thing. 

     Nails.

     Once, my brother Do, couldn't get Mr. Samuels to tell us. He kept saying "You'll think I'm nuts and put me in a home for funny people." Finally my brother said, "Mr. Samuels, does it taste like nails?" When he heard that Mr. Samuels, who had not opened his eyes or sat up for days, opened his eyes wide and popped right straight up. He scared the dickens out of us.

     "YES!" he said, "How do you know?"

     Then he fell back down and mumbled, "Nails. Nails."

By the next morning when Do and I got up for school, my ma told us that Mr. Samuels had passed on to be with Jesus that night.

     I tasted them nails myself once. It was when we were eleven. Me and my brother had climbed way up to the top of the tree down by the river. I was scared to do it but Do dared me and called me a baby if I didn't, so I did. From the top of the tree we could see the entire town and even the next town. Finally, when it was getting to be dark and we knew ma would have dinner ready, we started to climb down the tree and one of the branches my foot was on cracked. I fell! 

Lordie did I fall; fast, hard and long. I don't remember hitting the ground, all I remember is my brother standing over me looking down and saying, "Dillard, wake up". And that was when I tasted it. The nails. I told Dorango, but he didn't believe me, but it is true. I did. Throughout that whole dinner of bisquits and gravy I tasted them nails. But by the next morning the taste was gone. Dorango never did believe me, well until it happened to him.

     He always was the crazy one. Always doing dare-devil stunts to show off how brave he was. I finally got used to him calling me a baby because I wouldn't do all them crazy things with him. I didn't like being called a baby, but I wasn't about to go and get myself killed. 

     Like he did.

     It was a hot July afternoon. The kind of day when the air is so thick you feel like you're breathing in water. We was all down by the quarries, a few of us boys. Nineteen, me and Dorango were. Moose was there with us; he was big and he was eighteen at the time, but he talked like he was only ten. And John-John was there; he was nineteen like me and Do. And Little Hank was there who was only sixteen. He wasn't that little anymore but his pa was called big hank, so everyone called him little Hank.

     We was jumping off the sides of the quarries into the water when suddenly John-John dares Dorango to jump off the top. We all say no way, you'd kill yourself but Dorango says that he could do it because it would be like flying. That's when little Hank double-dared him and my brother never turned down a dare, especially a double-dare. He was too brave. 

     So that's when he climbed to the top. Now I'll tell you something, I know my brother and I saw his face when he was standing there, way up high above the rest of us and looking down and I'll never forget it. His face didn't look right. It looked like some of the people who we used to sit next to as they lay dying at our house.

     I yelled up to him, "Don't do it Dorango. You'll kill yourself."

     First he laughed. Then he jumped.

     We watched as he soared in the air, right past us. His arms were flapping as if he was trying to fly. His face was frozen with a scream that never did come out. He didn't look at us; he was looking down toward the water. And he hit with a loud slap. Then he was floating, face down, not moving.

     We dove into the water and pulled him out, me and Moose and John-John did. Little Hank just stood there screaming and crying. We laid him on his back on the shore. He stared up at us with a real funny look on his face, but he didn't move none. 

     He only looked at me and said, "It's true Dillard. Nails." 

     Then he stopped talking and wasn't breathing no more. But his eyes didn't close.

     So, there you have it. You wanted to know and now you do.

     Before you go, if you don't mind, would you please get me a drink of water. 

     I have the most unpleasant taste of nails in my mouth.
 

©Oceanldy