A Second Chance With The Dead
By Dave Fouts
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At dusk, memories of people I loved who died rise up more solid and intense than any other time of day or night. My wife, my mother, my father, my brothers, even aunts and old friends make themselves known. At such times I wonder just what exactly that word forever actually means, and about the great supposed distance between those of us here, and those who are gone? I don't understand it. So I don't quite believe what others might believe. Instead, I imagine a peaceful, quiet valley existing somewhere out there, one that is filled with long rows of doors. Behind those doors you would find someone you loved who died that you thought you'd never see again. Perhaps there would be a crowd of the dead behind the door you choose, but not so deep and dense, that the ones you were looking for wouldn't see you. A woman's voice, as familiar as breath, might cry out, "David Ray." I would know that would be my mother. If it is followed by a somber voice, saying only. "Dave." That would probably be my dad. The doorway would be like a womb that I pull them through, and once on the other side each would stagger about, crying with joy at being again in the land of the living. I would liberate not just the ones I knew and loved, but others that were missed in this world. No doubt, at first there would be such a beautiful chaos going on, with the dead and the living all talking at the same time, each having so much to say. I'm sure my mother would be happily looking on, hand stretched out to touch. My father had problems in emotional situations, so he'd probably make some half joking complaint. "That was such bullshit! We were stuck there forever, just waiting for you to open that door." My wife might be standing quietly off to the side, as if she were shy. As always, neither she nor I would know where to begin. Or if it was even worth the effort to try. And so we would all take advantage of this second chance to start over by being very kind and loving, this time leaving no room for regrets, or difficult questions that only hurt when asked, and that could never be answered in any good way. |
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