A story needs drama. But life is mostly insipid, washed
monochrome. And those are the better days. Death
demands more histrionics. A bigger stage. I wonder
about the distance to death, how many steps, how many
detours. What if I cannot walk all the way? What if I know
I am dead, for a day, for a year, what will I think about?
What will I miss? What will I want to go back for?
But the day she died, the one that took her life, I didn’t
understand the horror. There is a flurry of activity when
someone passes: there are things to get done, grief to
be expressed, people to be met. A kinetic filling of
the void. Instead of quiet. Instead of explanations.
The nightmares came later. When I was still young. When
I got older. The dead leave questions. Your life is no longer
directed towards your own end. It somehow points to
theirs. What do they think about? What do they miss? What
do they want to come back for? In the nightmares, she still
lives. And requires answers. Those are the better nights. But
this is an ordinary story. Mornings are always on schedule.