Do not fear

By Abigail Dunbar

Why is she so afraid to die? It’s not like she hasn’t been dead before. And as a general rule of her existence, if an experience is not particularly painful or scary the first time around, there is no sense in believing it will be particularly painful or scary the second time. 

In her first death, there might have been nothing. She thinks it was like a dreamless night: taking up no time and no real space. Or maybe like staring at a peaceful black sky. 

In her first death, she layed calmly in a warm, pink tomb. Around her, thin, blue rivers thrummed to a beat. A lovely female voice sang to her, and a male voice told her about her future: what the world would look like, what sport she was going to play, and how so many people were already so excited to meet her. She realized that both the singer and the talker loved her already. They had already given her a name. 

In her life, she slipped out as a blood-soaked mass into the gloved hands of a tired woman. The smell of antiseptics and sweat punched through her small nostrils. Fluorescent lights did not hesitate before searing her young flesh. The people that loved their new baby swaddled her in a linen blanket and took her on her first elevator ride. Outside, falling drops of cold water slid down her new face and swam into her open mouth. “Babies are born clean,” the doctor had said. 

In her life, she began in a beautiful little corner home, sleeping on a futon between those two people that loved her. She watched orange sunsets from the front porch. At night, she stretched her smooth arms and short legs to touch the warm bodies next to her. She felt their faces in the mornings and their damp shirts at night. She touched them with love—and to make sure they were still there. 

In her life, she liked to sit with the grass touching her legs, back against the broad yellow stomach of her best friend. The dog sat with the small girl for hours at a time, always obliging her when she offered up frayed dandelions as treats. The dog’s name was Nike. And Nike sniffed each flower methodically before she huffed out a satisfied sigh, and closed her black jowls around a meager blossom. The little girl did not understand why the sniffing routine was necessary–her best friend ate the flower every time without fail. 

In her life, in the back corner of a sacristy, her kindergarten teacher pulled a white, faux velvet dress over her head. It fit her well. Adult hands tightened the accompanying gold sash around her waist. She rehearsed her lines with the other angels, halo bobbing as she spoke. They all held the same script: white pages and worn edges. The girls (angels) were up next on stage. 

In her life, every Tuesday and Thursday at eight a.m., she sat on a long pew–thigh-to-thigh with other children–and pulled at Irish pennants along the sleeves of an itchy red sweater. The sweater was a fresh-blood red. At ten a.m. on weekends, the sweater followed her to another set of pews—this time filled with perfumed adults. The singer then watched as her growing girl trudged down an old, carpeted aisle, chewed on a pale wafer, and pretended to politely sip from a golden chalice.

In her life, the girl grew taller and ran faster. Other people began to yell at her to run even faster. Faster than her feet could ever strike the ground, and faster than her lungs could ever swallow air and spit it back out. They wanted her to run impossibly fast, she later realized. But the yellers loved her—so much so that they could scream absolutely anything at her and she would know they still loved her. 

In her life, she has many kinds of yellers now. Some yells sound distant and hollow like the occasional train blaring in the night, others are uncomfortably close by, and still more seem to have found a way to claw through her eardrums and sit in the back of her skull. Usually, her own voice is mad at her too–but it’s a front. Because she is not really mad, she is just scared. And she was not raised to act scared. But luckily, at certain moments when they think no one is listening, the occasional yeller whispers “Godspeed,” straight to her heart. 

In her second death, she might realize that being afraid was pointless, or that the feeling was ultimately inevitable. She will be okay. Her second death might be like her first. If that’s so, she hopes it will include the addition of a smooth black sea, and a collection of stars for that nice black sky. Or maybe it will be different: an immense wave of light and bliss and epiphany. Whatever the case, I hope she will get to remember all of the fervent yellers she met, and all of the silent dogs, and every other lovely, banal thing. But mostly I hope she will be able to recognize that everything was perfect–including herself.

Author Bio

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