Dr. Amarillo stepped through the door and strolled down the wheelchair ramp, which was quite a surprise since he was dead. At least, he was supposed to be. According to the flurry of activity on Facebook, he had died of a heart attack during a particularly vigorous game of cribbage.
I’d run into him at the La Hacienda Coop last week, the day before he supposedly died, and he looked one Frito pie away from a coronary embolism. It made sense that cribbage would be enough to push him over the edge. He hadn’t recognized me, which was fine. I’d spent probably six semesters in his art history classes, but that was nearly a decade ago and I have trouble remembering my current student’s names, let alone random ones from the past. I let him pass without saying hello. When I heard he’d died, I was a little wistful about my silence. I’d probably been a pain, argumentative at least, but I did like his classes. This was a rare second chance