That Time I Died

20 Jan

There was an explosion in the building, a bomb, a shooter, an unhappy gas stove improperly wired, I can’t be sure. But I didn’t survive. One minute I was standing there, waiting in line to cash a check, the next minute a white light and a billow of gray smoke. I didn’t have time to feel anything physical, emotional, spiritual. When the smoke cleared, there were bodies lying on the floor, but some people survived. You survived. And you saw me. I was still standing, but I was dead and I knew and you knew.

I see you, you said. I’m dead, I said. I know, you said. How is it that you can see me? I said. No one else could see me.

What is this? I asked you. You smiled. I am your protector now, you said. And you are mine. You reached for my hand. I tangled my fingers into yours and they felt solid, not see-through like a ghost. But I knew I was dead. I knew and you knew. I asked anyway: Am I really dead? Your eyes nodded yes. Now that you’re dead, nothing will ever suck again, you said. I realized there was no weight in my chest and my stomach felt like air. The pain in my neck that has been there since the 80’s was gone. I couldn’t remember any of the shame I’d been looping around my head for decades. My vision was perfect. And the best part was, when I looked down at my feet, my deceased cat’s golden eyes were looking up at me, sparkling.

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