Inklings 2023

THE DEATH OF JDR Chloe Alfonso ’24 Fire danced in the gilded hearth, roaring and waning to a mys- terious internal beat. A man whose face was worn with wrinkles and whose hair was colored gray sat in a plush armchair, a soft blanket wrapped around him. Alone in a vast room with trea- sures, the man was dying. He could feel it, his life seeping away from him. That morning, he’d transferred the last of his shares to heirs and forgiven loans long unpaid. Business was in order. Gently, he shook the snow globe in his hands and thought it so peculiar how similar the pieces of artificial weather were to his thoughts; they danced around aimlessly, falling to rest in no predictable manner. One was meant to think of their life in their final mo- ments, weren’t they? To muse over victories and regrets. He supposed, knowing these were those moments and there was nothing else to do, there was no harm in revisiting the past. As he reflected on his life, he smiled warmly at each accomplish- ment. He had no regrets. Granted, some memories brought about uncomfortable emotions that he didn’t care to explore, but none regret. Perhaps his unwavering ideology had vanquished the seemingly inescapable emotion. He believed in hard work and God. In his view of the world, the ideal life was hard work that generated wealth to be shared, wealth that would improve the common good. To this creed, he had been the most stalwart acolyte. The sitting room reminded him of his youth. It was not the ap- 4