To the Best of You Ability

Subtitled as "It's Your Turn"

You get to watch them hold their head in their hands and see the tears filling the little rivulets of cracked fingers (and soon the cracks will deepen because the tears will be an ocean and they won't wash themselves away). You can hear the cry of rage and pain and anguish even though there's no sound. You are privileged to remember the light leaving their eyes as they slowly realize that soon they will be eternally bereft of music and laughter and eyes and hands and toes and love. You get to do a lot of things that few can even imagine. But it was your turn.

You can feel. You're allowed to feel. You get to feel the cold and the ash and the dust and the snow as they peel and fray and knot life's little ribbons. You hate it here. And it's not fair. It's not right. It's not right because you're not supposed to feel. You're not supposed to feel because it's over (it's over, and you left them, and now you can't leave them again; you watch).

You hate it here. Here you have to relive death over and over and over. There's no end, no veil. Death became your life because you have work to do. When someone dies you'll find them and carry them away. You'll hold their hand (like you'll never get to do with your loves again and each time you hold a new one you know, and you hate life and death and the galaxy.)

You thought it would be different – black, maybe. You thought here you'd find sleep and solace and refuge and hope (but you had that already, didn't you? He was there for you). You thought you'd rest the rest of your (arbitrary, relative, nominal) life here, didn't you? You wished, didn't you?

And you thought you'd be happy because the pain would end (but the pain you left for him and others makes yours seem like nothing, and it is). You thought you'd leave the world behind. And you weren't afraid (because he was there and holding you, telling you not to be afraid, that you'll see him tomorrow…).

Now this. You got to watch him for awhile. You got to see him wither away. You got to feel his pain as he left. You felt your own tenfold when that was the last time you saw him (because he can't find you here and you're alone).

Sometimes you watch people. You fiddle with your own musings and pretend you're there with them, that you're part of their world. You follow them in their lives and you want to be with them, but you can't because all you're doing is waiting for their time to come. You want to scream and cry and warn them not to leave anything unfinished, one person unloved, one stone unturned (and that cliché rings hollow in your ears). But nobody can hear you. Desperately you try to prepare them for this world, the in-between. Some stay longer than others, but then it's their turn and you're alone all over again.

You remember holding your brother's hand and whisking him away (and that cut your soul and deflated your heart). And he even remembered you (because your brother was like you, he had the Ability too.)

For him, it was not easy (it never is, but now especially so because you loved him), for he was like a child again. You wanted to stop and hold his hand forever, to make him remember who you are, to tell him to stop pretending and being so mean. You want to cry but you've almost forgotten what it feels like. And when you lead him through, the final signature living within you goes too.

This is the price you pay for having the Ability. One (arbitrary, relative, nominal) day you hope to resolve yourself; to do this job professionally and in the best way it can be done. You remind yourself that you were chosen for this because you were the best. You could help those who left the living take the next step. But you feel like your whole life you gave and never took because you didn't want to. Now all you want to do is take your turn and walk into that light. To join everyone else (and then maybe you won't feel at all anymore). You try to force yourself to forget, wondering if, since there is no time, you'll be here forever too.

And then you see light and someone takes your hand.

Don't be afraid: I'm right here with you, sweetheart. It's your turn.

I wrote this piece in a sort of abstract style; I apologize heavily if its super-confusing. If I can clear it up in any way please let me know. Confusion and stories do not really mix well if you ask me. ;)