What Comes Next?
Written by Chris Zeid
Nothing ended.
Nothing began either. I only continued, imprisoned inside myself, stuck in observation. Is this really how it goes, or am I inside some type of nightmare? I can’t feel, or move, or do anything. I can’t believe I died. No, I can’t believe this is what it is after death.
I lie down in my coffin—it’s an open casket funeral, not something I would have wanted—and I see several wistful faces. If only they could know I see them. If only they could know how much I’m thinking about my love for them. I’m scared to be without them, I’m frightened for them to be without me. I wish I could do something. Maybe if I focus hard enough, I can show them a sign. I yearn for them to know I’m here.
A thought passes through my mind. Maybe ghosts are real. I’m clearly here right now, and I am dead; a dead person shouldn’t be amongst the living. Shouldn’t I either just stop or be in some scenic place beyond words that can be described? If ghosts were real, then I should be able to communicate or do something. Yet, all I can do is see with my eyes and listen with my ears. Maybe this is how you get a proper goodbye?
My frightening feeling is beginning to taper off, because there’s so much love and life around me. I guess I can feel, just not of the physical kind. I’m so happy they went with the open-casket after all. I needed to see them as much as they needed to see me. Thank you for playing that song, by the way. You know who you are.
Oh, wait? Is it over already? I suppose it is. That went by quickly.
The coffin closes, submerging me into the darkest of darkness I’ve ever experienced, and I’m being moved. I can hear the tears as they hold me, take me to where presumably I’ll be buried. I’m still in shock this has happened. I don’t want to accept that now my sight is gone, too. How can it ever come back if I can’t take myself out of this coffin? There’s a hope that I can break free somehow, but there’s a fear that I’ll be stuck with only my thoughts forever. There is still the possibility this is a fabrication of my inner creativity, isn’t there?
The wind moans outside. I can hear the rustling of leaves and the walking of feet against soft, moist grass. I know they are taking me to my plot, to that open hole in the ground destined to become my new home. I hope when I’m buried six feet under that soil, I can still hear them when they visit me.
My coffin and I come to a stop as I’m placed upon an object which will lower me into the ground. I can’t remember what those are called, but I’m familiar with them from other funerals. This is scary, I truly thought I would wake up by now. But I’m not waking up, this isn’t a nightmare—this is reality.
I try to move again, try to make some type of noise to tell them, “No, don’t bury me! I’m here. I’m here, I can hear you. I’m not dead. (Well) Please just open the coffin.” I can’t speak, though, I can’t do anything. This isn’t an operating table where I’ve awoken from the anesthesia, but only enough to be aware. It’s not an overdose of medicine cutting off all function outside of consciousness. I know, because I remember dying, but if I accept my death, then I accept leaving everyone behind.
I have now reached the point where the fears of being imprisoned inside myself have withdrawn. I’m only left with the burning desire to stay. Don’t finish it. Don’t finish my funeral. Keep it going, because once it’s done, that’s it. They’ll move on, because that’s what you do. But how can I?
The talking has ceased. It’s nearly quiet, outside of the few that are left with dripping tears—their love for me. I understand it’s going to end now, the sounds of my celebration, my goodbye. It’s signified with the clumps of dirt tossed upon my coffin. I recall an old memory from the first funeral I experienced, one for my grandfather. The morning of the funeral, my father had told me how tossing dirt into the grave meant you were helping to see them through to their next phase in life. I remember feeling so proud when my seven-year-old-self mustered the courage to do it. It was at the last moment before the coffin would be lowered, and I couldn’t wait to tell my father, have him feel so proud of me. They’re tossing the dirt on me now. Where am I being sent to?
The thought of dying and there being nothing after has always terrified me. In a strange twist, the thought of an after-life has scared me the same. Living forever in a way is like being gone forever. Maybe. In all those thoughts throughout my life, it never occurred to me at this being a possibility.
I’m being lowered into the ground. I’ve always imagined how lovely it would be if as my coffin were lowered, a beautiful rainstorm began, but only briefly. The rain would fall through a brightly lit sky, the dropping water wiping away the fallen tears of all those who came. The thunder banging, an indication of my hello with the snap and crackle of a thunderbolt telling them, “Hey everyone, just wanted to give you one last bit of fun.” And this would all happen in that short span of me being lowered. For once I reached my final resting place, the rain show would close with a stunning color-drenched rainbow to follow.
Through the lowering of my coffin, I hear pelts of what I hope is rain. The thunder comes next and concluded with that wonderful crackle of lightning. I suppose it happened the way I wished. I won’t be able to see the rainbow, but I feel it. This at least, my first comfort of this strange, confusing day.
After everyone leaves, a cemetery worker will come to seal me in. Isn’t it an interesting thought that so many can stand before a grave filled with heavy emotion and memories, and then in a time later, a worker with no connection can stand before the same grave feeling nothing or much less? My worth, as well as everyone else’s has been and always will be from the people I knew. Can you imagine going through what I have been through today with no one at all?
The clumps of dirt and ground from the cemetery worker fall into my grave covering my coffin. Somehow, I’m beginning to understand that I’ll be leaving soon. Where will I go next? I don’t want to leave you, and I don’t want to leave them. Do I have to? And just as if a magical genie has said, “Your wish has been granted,” I find myself back in my home. I see my loved ones talking amongst themselves. Coffee, tea, and other drinks are available in the kitchen alongside some light snacks. I hate seeing them all with such sadness and standing in the middle of the kitchen, I decide to announce myself.
“Hello everyone. Don’t be sad. I’m right here, don’t you see? I didn’t go away, I’m right in front of you all. Wherever it is I am, in this moment, I’m also here. Always will be.”
Why I believe they could have heard that, I couldn’t say. Wishful thinking, I suppose. We all get it at times. And what’s so bad about giving something the good old try? You never know if you don’t give it a shot.
It’s in that next moment that I see everyone staring at me, and it feels like they can see me. My presence has found its way from the land of the dead to the place of the living, stalling their tears as they continue with their stare. I hear the beginnings of music. It’s my favorite song, you know the one; the one played at my funeral. Then I realize they aren’t staring at me, but through me. Behind me is a record player spinning a vinyl running through its who-knows-how-many-revolutions producing that sweet melody of music. Someone sneakily turned it on. Next to the spinning record are photos—so many memories. As I look at each photo, I remember them all in vivid, wonderous detail. Have you ever had a memory you can play back inside your mind that feels as if it is occurring in the present? That’s what’s happening with all of these photos. Suddenly, I’m in the memories, but it goes by in a brief second. They move into me as quickly as they eject themselves out.
Once I return, my funeral has ended.
What comes next?