After




After

     “It's not much, is it?” All that stood in front of me was a vast expanse of white.

     The man who seemed to be waiting for me at the top said nothing.

     “So do you look this way for everybody, or just me?”

     He glanced at his black suit, the withered, red carnation pinned to its lapel, the thin outlines of ribs pressing against the fabric of his shirt, anchored by the breeze. His expression was quizzical, like he didn't see what I saw.

     “I neither know nor care, sir.”

     I glanced down. The ladder still dangled below, perfectly still even as the stratospheric winds whipped against it.

     “Lucky I was a jumper, huh?”

     The man said nothing. His hands remained firmly clasped behind his back.

     “So that, you know, the height...wouldn't...”

     He just stared.

     “Everyone has to climb.”

     “So everyone ascends, huh?”

     “Yes.”

     “Even bad ones?”

     “Yes.”

     “So...no divine punishment?”

     “Nor reward. We are neither just nor unjust. We simply are.”

     “So...”

     “Correct, you needn't worry about the manner of your death. You will be treated as all others here.” I blinked. “Quite simply, the universe has other things to care about. One member of one species dying one time is neither unusual nor significant.”

     “One time?”

     “Some try again.”

     “Can I?”

     “If you wish.”

     “How?”

     “That isn't for me to say.”
  
     “What about...”

     “You family will die when they die. If you wish to wait you may wait.”

     “If I start over...”

     “No. The life you have lived will remain lived.”

     “So...”

     “Correct. Your death and everything that sprang from it will remain.”

     I glanced back at the void.

     “What's out there?”

     “What you see.”

     “I don't see anything.”

     “Then that's what is out there.”

     “Do they ever wait? People like me? People who die like me, I mean.”

     “Some do. Most don't.”

     “What usually happens? When they see each other again?”

     “It varies.”

     “So, will they arrive here?”

     “Nearby.”

     “How nearby?”

     “It varies.”

     “So there's a chance I'll never see them at all.”

     “Correct.”

     “But there's a better chance to see them if I stay put?”

     “Correct.”

     I clenched my fists. My chest heaved. I turned to face the man. I still don't know why I bothered letting him know. I did that a lot in life, too. Told people things. Mostly people I knew wouldn't care.

     “I'll walk.”

     “Most do.”


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