I am falling
Suddenly I feel myself hit the ground.
Strangely, I am feeling no pain.
I open my eyes and look around.
Standing slowly, I wonder why my legs are not broken, why my body is not bleeding.
Though I am feeling no pain, I do feel strange…
very light, as if the slightest wind could blow me miles away.
Knowing I shouldn’t, I turn and look at where I was laying, just moments ago.
I am fascinated, and a little frightened, by what I see.
There, lying on the ground is me. But it is not me. It is simply my body.
I wonder how my body can be lying on the street, while I am standing above it.
Does this mean I am in Heaven? Or could it be Hell?
Then I begin to analyze my life.
Had I done anything truly horrible to deserve Hell? No, I hadn’t.
But had I done anything truly honorable to deserve Heaven? No, I hadn’t.
So, where am I? And what am I?
I bring my hands to my face…but it is not a hand. It is just a turquoise haze.
I look down at my body. Not at the one in the street, but at the one that I now occupy.
It’s shape resembles a body, but like the hand, it is really just a wisp of color.
I am confused.
So, as I always do in times of confusion, I turn towards home. i
When I get there, I find no one.
I am home, but I am still alone.
For some reason, I think about a story I read. I cannot recall the name of the story. ii
It is a story in which the antagonist has died and is given the chance to visit one day of her life.
She chooses her thirteenth birthday, to the opposition of the other deceased members of the story.
As I remember the story, I think about what day I would choose.
Would it be a happy day, or a sad day?
The day I met my best friend for the first time, or the day my brother moved away?
Would I go to a Christmas day, or the day of my Nana’s funeral?
As I thought over this question, I realized that it didn’t matter what day I chose.
No day could change things. Nothing could redirect the path I had taken.
Realizing that home would hold no comfort, I go outside and start to walk.
As I walk, I realize I’m not walking, I am being blown along by the gentle breeze.
I close my eyes and let the breeze take me where it would.
As I float I think again about Heaven and Hell.
Some say that in Heaven, everyone is joyful and happy.
I ponder this. How would my Heaven be happy if everyone I loved wasn’t there?
Or was it that when one goes to Heaven, they forget all of the things that made them happy while they were alive.
That sounds more like Hell, in my opinion.
And what of Hell?
Is it truly a place where no one is happy?
Is it the fire and brimstone that everyone depicts it as?
I do not know. I don’t even think I care at this point.
I am tired and want to rest.
But, I have no body, how can I lie down to sleep?
I go back to where my tangible body is still lying in the street.
I realize that there is a child staring at me.
Not at the body in the street, but at me…the turquoise haze I have become.
She is a small child, with strawberry blonde hair and large azure eyes.
Maybe the myth is true – that only animals and small children can see ghosts!
Is that what I am? A ghost?
The child’s mother is standing nearby.
She glances at her daughter with a preoccupied look on her face.
The mother is beautiful…elegant.
Her eyes match the hue of her daughter’s, as does her hair.
Both of them are very petite.
The child starts to talk to me, telling me of her life.
I am shocked. She is not.
I gradually get over my shock and I begin to listen to her story.
As I tune in to her tale, I become even more curious about this whole ordeal.
Her life is almost parallel to mine. Yet, she can only be eight years old, maybe younger!
As I listen, I realize her life has been worse than mine.
She has gone through more trials and tribulations then I had in all of my seventeen years.
Yet, I see in her beautiful eyes a determination…
a will to survive whatever is thrown her way.
I admire this determination. I remember a time when I was also as determined.
But in her eyes…those eyes which can tell a story all by themselves…
In her eyes I see that she has more courage than me.
That she will be able to overcome the abuse and sadness that she hasn’t yet encountered.
She will not let it bring her down.
She will save herself. She will save almost everyone she will encounter throughout her life.
Then I look in to her eyes again and see that she fears many things.
That she wonders, “Will I be able to save those who don’t want to be saved? Should I even try?”
She is truly an angel.
When I try to answer questions with spoken words, I realize that I cannot.
She can speak to me, and I can’t speak to her?
That is not fair.
But wait! She isn’t speaking either. Not with words.
It is her eyes. They are telling me her story. She does not really see the haze that I am.
I look in to her mother’s eyes now.
They are tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of putting up with it all.
But they are still fighting. They are doing it for her child’s sake.
In her eyes, I see that she thinks she has lost her child, that she is beyond saving.
But still she tries. She does not give up.
Strange enough, her daughter feels the same way…
she thinks she has lost her mother.
If only I could tell each of them that…that what?
That they are still worth saving? I think they know that fact already.
That is why they are both still fighting.
The child turns back towards her mother. They walk slowly down the street, hand in hand.
Why was I chosen to witness this?
I am still tired.
I follow the mother and daughter home.
Why do I find such comfort in them?
Is it because they still fight for one another?
I am frightened!
No, it is not me who is frightened…it is her. It is the child.
But it is also her mother.
We are coming nearer to a small house on a quiet street.
The fear is intensified. I wish that I could hold the child and her mother.
I wish I could comfort them, as they comfort me.
I wish I could save them from their fear.
These wishes are all in vain.
It is night time. The child lays in her bed.
She is clutching something…a locket.
She runs to the window and views the pictures in the silver moonlight.
I peer over her shoulder.
Two pictures stare at us. One is her mother…eight years old.
The other is also her mother. This one is recent.
The little girl begins to cry.
I run to her mother’s room, hoping to some how get her to go comfort her child.
But the mother is also crying.
I feel as if I am being ripped apart. How can I help them?
I want to run out of the house, but I also want to stay and help them.
Then I hear a sound behind me.
She climbs in to her mother’s arms.
Their eyes meet. They tell one another their stories without saying a word.
I feel the fear dissipating.
They are saving each other!
Had I helped in some way? I don’t know.
I am no longer tired.
I leave the house.
I am floating.