I live inbetween. Between the living and the dead. Which means I don’t really live here. I just between here. It doesn’t matter. This is where I stay.
Most people pass through my door and go right through the hallway, out into the garden and disappear through the backyard gate. I keep the garden nice and the hallway tidy. I don’t age, I haven’t since I got here, and I don’t think I want to know how old I would be now. The house changes sometimes. It improves on itself. I think the house is a being in itself. It must be the thing that brings you from alive to dead. At some point it grew a computer and later, a wi-fi router. When I got here, it was a typical middle-class home. I assume it’s still the same to you guys.
Sometimes people stay for a bit. Might be for a cup of coffee or the length of an album. They might tell me why they died, if they know. There’s kids sometimes, most just go through the hallway and I don’t notice them, but sometimes they wander around. They might ask me if this is really all they get. They might cry. I ask if they have anyone special waiting for them. I used to just ask about their parents, but that isn’t always who they want to see. If they don’t have anyone waiting on the other side, I lead them to the gate and tell them that whatever they see on the other side will be nice, that they will meet lots of new friends. I might even tell them stories of funny kids around their age who have passed through my house.
I don’t know, of course. I’ve never been to the other side. But I bet it’s nice. I bet it’s just as nice as I tell them.
Sometimes people stay for longer, maybe a week, maybe a year. But they always pass on eventually. They grow tired of staying in the same spot. Listening to people tell them the same stories. They bore of being between, like water just simmering, always on the brink of boiling. I get it. But I stay here. I’m content. And the stories never bore me. They’re different in the ways they’re told.
I’m not here to scare you about the afterlife. I don’t know anything about the afterlife. I can stand in front of my house and see the living, but I can also stand in my backyard and not know a thing about the dead. I’m just here to talk to you.
I think you’re doing well, despite everything. I know it’s been a hard couple of years. I’ve been fascinated with you for a while. I see you, from my front porch. I see how hard you’re trying. He wanted to have told you himself, but, you know. It wasn’t meant to be. I know how much you want people to like you. You want it so much. It’s alright. They mostly do. And even when they don’t, you didn’t really have much choice in that. You’re much too critical of yourself.
I just wanted to send you this message. It’s gonna be a while until we see eachother, luckily for you. You have a lot of great things left in store, even if it doesn’t look like it right now. But I’m just so excited to see you. I sense that you’re different. I sense that once you get here, you might wanna stay. Maybe for a cup of lukewarm coffee with six teaspoons of sugar (I’m just kidding. I know what you drink). I sense that once you get here, you won’t wanna leave right away. And I sense that once you do wanna leave, I will already have figured out how I can make you stay.
Also, you really wanna fix that slouch.