Die Twice

🎵 I heard you die twice, once when they bury you in the grave 

And the second time is the last time that somebody mentions your name 🎵

Tears welled up in his ephemeral eyes. In his invisible eyes. He was a shroud, a wraith. Death was not at all like you imagined it. No pearly gates, no record of your life on earth, judgement, lies. Death was a mellow affair. Earthly life was the overdramatic one. Here, everything was tamped down. He remembered it all as if it had been this moment, as if it were happening now. At least he understood time here. Simultaneous and non-linear. The woman who wrote the book about the wizards had it right. Kind of. His brain created a construct that would help him make sense of his reality.

His was fun. He was playing arena polo. It had been ages since he had played it. The last time he had played it on earth was when he was in his early teens. But here he was, now. He was focused. His opponent was wearing a hoodie, he could not see his face. The horse on the other side was a glistening black, sweat dripping off his mane, froth foaming around his lips. His own horse was Fajr, his favorite during his childhood, a golden Arabian, sweet, mellow. When she tired, somehow he switched to his other favorite, Haroon, a temperamental stallion who would do everything he could to kick you off. Until you earned his respect. He switched without switching. The horse below him shifted.

Tears welled up. He wished them away. His eyes still burned. His brain had not left the construct of his earthly life just yet. He could still smell here, even though he knew there were no trees, no earthy ground, no chocolates. He could see earth, but not touch it, as if it were a mirage, when in fact he was the one everything would pass through. He could still hear the throbbing in his heart.

Tears welled up. He did not understand why. He was not upset about how he had died, in old age, good cheer, surrounded by his loved ones. What else could it be.

Tears welled up. He could not wish them away. It felt like a train was thundering towards him. There, he could almost hear the choo-choo. He could almost hear the billowing smoke streaming out of a funnel, could feel the warmth of the coal burning in the engine room.

Tears welled up. His heart started to beat loudly, echoing off the walls of this construct in his head.

Tears started to stream down. It felt like a premonition. His chest hurt. He grabbed it, his nails digging into his hairless chest. He was not wearing a shirt. He wished on pants. He was wearing those now.

Tears turned into rivulets turned into streams. Something was coming. The train kept speeding onwards. Faster. Towards him.

He was on earth now, he could feel the ground vibrating, the train was still coming. He was on earth, it was now fifty years three days and two hours since he had passed away. He did not know how he knew. He knew. The wrinkled person in front of him was him. It could not be. It was his grandson. He shivered. The grandson tried to croak out something. He leaned in. another cough. He waited. The man said one word before he passed away. His grandfather’s name. Poof. The wraith popped out of existence.