Postcard Story III: Lie in State

When I die, I want to lie in state like the pope. Preserve the last solemn smile on my face; fold my arms over my chest; dress me in my finest suit, and let everyone come wish me well. Here lies a man we used to drink with, they will say. Let’s hope there is plenty more merriment in store for him. Or: here is the man that didn’t love me. I suppose I can forgive him now. Whisper softly, as if afraid to wake me.

Then take me down to the North Saskatchewan as the springtime current rips by. Set me on the bank where the roar of breaking ice floes fills my ears. Retire to a picnic table at a quiet distance, and watch. The seagulls are coming. They are hovering over the surface of the water, ruffling their feathers in the wind, a little disconcerted by the commotion. Beyond the flurry of their wings, sunlight glints from the placid downtown towers that reach in vain for the clouds.

Now leave me. Don’t entomb me in the dirt. I want to be free to haunt you. My eyes will open when you have departed. I will stand up. I will walk, gather momentum, then my feet will leave the ground. I will glide like I’ve dreamed of since a child. I will float in through your windows; see old lovers with new lovers; observe friends forming new friendships; visit family and former family, who will now be spirits, floating like me over hilltops and treetops, across the great ocean. I will linger in warm places, feeling the pulse of the living. But I will only ever watch, listen, and smell the freshness of life like spring soil. I will never interfere.

Maybe, in a moment as still as death, when you are alone, you will feel something like electricity moving through the air. Just as soon as you sense it, I will go away again. For a fleeting second, you might think this is me. Then you will remember me as you last saw me, lying in state, fragile, as if made from porcelain. You will never suspect what a mischievous thrill of energy I have become.