Death and I
Death, in a black robe and hood, shook his finger at me twice. The first time was when I was four years old and climbed on the roof of my two story house. I looked down at the concrete driveway underneath and knew for sure that jumping meant death. The alluring thing about this was that although I knew that death existed, I did not know what or who death was. What happened to you and the world when life was no more? In my four year old’s mind without responsibilities or attachments, this was a very objective question, and it was as simple as jumping in order to find out the answer. I did not jump. As I stared at the distance between me and the street, it dawned on me that if I died, I’d probably be born again. So, what was the use? I was a healthy four year old boy, and to star again, seemed a waste of time. However, it occurred to me that going to other side of the roof, next to our garden, and jumping from there to the grass below, which was softer, would give me half the experience. I jumped.
Stupid me, I did not know how to fall. When I landed on my hands, my arms gave out, and I hit my little head, breaking my spine. I died instantly, with my knees bend, paralyzed in that position, for my poor family to see. And it was here that I saw him, or it, or she, I don’t; I saw the image of image of him: the man in the hood and the long black robe. He was not as nimble as he was often portrayed, but rather tall and corpulent, his mysterious face behind his black hood, invisible. He then shook his black gloved index finger at me, and I think I understood why. My mother had loved me dearly. I was her first boy––energetic and strong willed, I may have been a good personality. After I died she blamed herself for been too focused on her business, which she ran from home, and which she was working on in the kitchen when I jumped. This was the fifties in the United States and people were not kind to women working, and those stupid people gave her the evil eye for not having paid attention to me, which sadly, induced her guilt. My death had nothing to do with her; I felt awful and decided to make it up to her.
Some people look at lives of unusual circumstances with awe. This is all crap. For my next life, I chose to be born in a family that I was sure would leave me in an orphanage. I was what you call an accident. My loving parents were poor and unprepared, and it was the right decision to leave me. The little boy that developed this time did not have superman ideations, but was rather serious and sensitive. He was still strong willed though. I grew up happy as this little boy in an orphanage, and I never wanted to be adopted.
I studied hard and earned a scholarship to a university. Once there, to my surprise, I was looked up as an example of a person of humble beginnings who had succeeded. But partly as consequence of all the praise, I started to get lost in the drama of my own life story. I decided that the world had dealt me shitty circumstances, indeed. Nobody was like me in the university. I started to feel lonely, alienated. I was an eccentricity among well bred boys and girls with moms and dads, connections and family history. I felt lost, angry, rejected, and started drinking. I did this for a few years, barely keeping up with my studies.
It all changed one night in a bar, when, as in a fairy tale, in walked the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She lid up the whole place with glow that so affectionate, it made me feel good again. She had come with a group of male friends, but the pull I felt towards her was such that I forgot my shyness, introducing myself and asking her to dance. On the dance floor, our conversation flowed easily, as if we had met each other before. She was studying child psychology; I was studying physics. Our schools were not far from each other. We started dating.
It was not long before I wanted to give the whole world to this woman. I stopped drinking and returned to my studies with renewed focus. She became my sole inspiration. Her well being was my only goal. I was in love. Little did I know that she was my mother from my previous life. We married a few years later, and I worked hard and gave her the house of her dreams. Then she did something really stupid. She went off with another man. I could not understand it. I was shocked. I talked to her, pleaded with her, but all she could say was that “it just happened.” What kind of excuse is that? I did not understand it.
I was left alone in my big empty house. It was difficult, and I started drinking again. Red wine, like blood, I drank and drank as if there was no tomorrow. Soon I lost my job, then could not pay the mortgage, and was losing the house. Sometimes, I went up to the roof with my bottle and curse the heavens and the night until the neighboring houses turned their lights on.
It was on one of those nights, that I ended it. I was so drunk that I wobbled near the edge of the roof, and the concrete sidewalk below moved like gelatin. A memory of a distant past came to my head. It was the most intense de javu I had ever experienced. But my state of mind was unable to pull insight out of anything, and I became furious. Raving like a madman, I started cursing the concrete below: “Aww, fuck you.” “I’m not a victim anymore.” “You want a piece of me.” “I’ll let you have piece of me.” And so I ran back to the middle of the roof, stopped, and then ran in my drunken squabble towards the edge. I was going to jump, I had no attachments and did not care. But right as I neared the edge, I saw Mr. Death again: all in black, tall, shaking the index finger of his gloved hand. Then I realized my stupidity and wanted to stop, but it was too late. My feet were already on the air in front of me. I landed on my back, my head cracking on the street below, killing me instantly.
Now, I am telling you this story from the only place I can. I just died again. This time though, I was eighty seven years old and died in bed surrounded by my family. I just stopped breathing. This was nicer. My ex wife and mother from my two previous lives and I were friends for a while in my mid 30s this time around. We cared for each other deeply, and we may have got involved had we not both been married. I had kids this time and was a protective and paranoid parent. It feels strange here. My lives are visible at the same time, and so are all the lives of the people I’ve met. It’s all crystal clear now. I was unable to do this before. I’ve learned so much. But I move forward, and I am already forgetting. And there is Mr. Death again. He just stands there with his arms crossed, but he ain’t shaking no finger at me this time. I pass right next to him and stare into his hooded face. Then I am alive again.