What You Pass On
R EFLECTION by Stephen King What You Pass On Acouple of years ago I found out what “you can’t take tending the barbeque. Mom and the kids are setting the it with you” means. I found out while I was lying in a picnic table: fried chicken, coleslaw, potato salad, a ditch at the side of a country road, covered with mud and chocolate cake for dessert. And standing around the blood and with the tibia of my right leg poking out the fence, looking in, are emaciated men and women, side of my jeans like the branch of a tree taken down in a starving children. They are silent. They only watch. That thunderstorm. I had a MasterCard in my wallet, but when family at the picnic is us; that backyard is America, and you’re lying in a ditch with broken glass in your hair, no those hungry people on the other side of the fence, one accepts MasterCard. watching us sit down to eat, include far too much of the We all know that life is ephemeral, but on that particular rest of the world: Asia and the subcontinent; countries in day and in the months that followed, I got a painful but Central Europe, where people live on the edge from one extremely valuable look at life’s simple backstage truths. harvest to the next; South America, where they’re burning We come in naked and broke. We may be dressed when down the rain forests; and most of all, Africa, where AIDS we go out, but we’re just as broke.
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