Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Talking to Her

My friend Ashley, a dancer and Circus Amok ring performer, asked me yesterday if I could marry someone who spoke to the dead, would I want to? I knew what she was asking. She was asking, If you could talk to Meg, would you?

I told her I wouldn't. What would Meg have to say to me, I thought, that she didn't already say when she was living? The things I want to know aren't things that she, specifically, would have to tell me (although I would appreciate them from her sensitive yet removed perspective): What is the journey like? Is there a tunnel of white light? Do the angels play harps? And, as I've written before, did you get all the text messages I sent after you died?

What a scene at your memorial service, I might say, with that long strange painting hung on the curtain, and the very colorful...quilt?...shawl?...draped over the podium. When you-know-who said you-know-what and I thought you might send lightning down to smite her--but I knew you wouldn't because you're like that. Or you're not like that.

I suppose I would want to talk with Meg. But if I can't, that's fine too. The last words she said to me were 'Happy Fucking Birthday,' which I cherish unlike anything else in this world. So--in our many nights laying awake in my bed together, stacks of letters, phone calls so long both my cell phone and cordless land-line went dead--we said basically everything we needed to say to each other.

I won't write "as if we knew." Because we didn't.

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