Timothy Gager

When we died, Martie and I looked into each other’s souls and asked, “Where the heck is the afterlife?”

 

This.

 

“Hello?” I sent my voice out into the light. “Is there Customer Service here in limbo?”

 

Martie was directly behind me but she seemed to be pushing her sense of consciousness past mine.

 

“Couscous?” she asked. “I can almost taste it.”

 

“Excuse me,” as again, I had to put myself out to the Universe. “I’m not experiencing anything that is served with a meat or vegetable stew. I’m not getting much taste out of this life after death, but I like this form. I have no hands.”

 

Martie and I were intertwined with one another but we needed more than this new rush of spiritual sharing. We needed completeness and love for all, not just for each other.

 

“Baby, don’t we need some sort of instructions?” I asked. “Shouldn’t something be leading us to a destination?” Just then, an old station wagon with fake wood paneling, a surfboard on top, drove past our existences. Freud, Adler and Carl Rogers were riding in it. They were The Beach Boy psychologists.

 

“You catching the waves?” I asked.

 

“Sie sind nicht winken,” Freud said.

 

He was right, as usual, and I was snapping and clapping my reinstated hands.

 

Martie now was above me looking down, spinning like a propeller, completely surrounded by bliss. She was rising and the gods hurled her a million stories above me. Left behind, I waved, projecting a final message of love to that soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

After the Afterlife