People walked by without so much as a glance. Since when had the humans become so unkind? A gust of wind picked up, sending trash and debris tumbling down the concrete and pavement toward him. A crinkled flyer tried to skirt behind him, but got stuck on his loose clothing. He grabbed the paper and looked at it.

Come see The Devil’s Milk

LIVE at Mulberry Lounge Friday, Saturday and Sunday at 7pm!

Beneath the text was the picture of a goat buck licking the side of a spilling milk bottle. God frowned, slowly processing the flyer. Everything about the message sent his stomach into flips. But, he had to admit, there was a strange tug inside him to go to the performance. He gathered his strength and got to his feet, looking around for anything that would indicate the current date and time. A digital clock tower two streets down gave him all the info he needed. The show started in an hour.

The line was out the door when he got there. He noticed everyone handing over some cash in order to be let in. Luckily, no one seemed to realize he was even there, so he slipped in with a bunch of rowdy dudebros. He took a seat in the back corner by the bar. It wasn’t long before the lights dimmed and the curtain lifted to reveal a tall woman dressed as Satan. God nearly fell off his stool because of the uncanny resemblance to one of his own original creations. However, the guttural and primal sounds that came out of her mouth rocked him to his core. The heavy metal music blared through the speakers, and her acrobatics gave God pause as he wondered if the being on stage was actually Satan. As the show went on, the doubts were increasing, but then God spotted a familiar blond-haired man standing off to the side of the stage.

“Michael?” God whispered, which caused a random gust of wind to flutter through the room to Michael.

Michael locked eyes with God a moment before the stage went black for intermission.

But beyond all the light is a dark expanse full of unknown. If God is there, shadows hide Him. Or maybe He never existed at all. Or maybe He did, but then had to step away. But why? And to where?

You go about your day, feeling the weight of the world increasing on your shoulders. By nightfall, you’re ready to crumble. But you get home, back into your space. You turn inward and reflect, and pray, and sigh. In the folds of your blankets, your questions, your doubts, and your pillows, you look for the answers from Him.

But it’s not just you. It’s everyone else trying to get His attention. So if you were Him, wouldn’t you be tired too?

Do you ever wonder if God is okay?

Maybe God is fed up with your shit. With our shit.

A harsh cough wracks my body as I sit down on a park bench. Once I regain my breath, I look around me. “Where did all the trees go?” I wonder aloud. An empty expanse of grass sprawls out before me. A small pond is over yonder with a fountain spewing water in the center. But there aren’t any trees. No shade. No refuge from the harsh sun.

I looked up the path to my left. I looked down the path to my right. Not a soul in sight. I slowly get up and make my way down toward the busy street nearby. I can feel the frenzy of packed schedules and impending deadlines before I even reach the road. A honk pierced the air followed by a revving engine.

I stop at a crosswalk and stare at the evenly spaced blocks of white paint designating where I can go. My eyes drift over all the lines that tell you where to go. All this guidance but there is still this profound feeling of lost-ness. A cough scrapes through my body, forcing me to prop myself up against the pole of the stoplight.

How can I offer guidance when I can’t even guide myself?

“Why on God’s green Earth would anyone be outside tomorrow in that heat?” asked a middle-aged woman.

God stopped and looked at her. His creation. She was questioning him. Just like he’d designed her to do.

“God, why is it so hot?” a teenage boy complained behind him. “I’m sweating my ass off.”

God turned and looked at the boy. “Because I’m dying,” he said to the boy.

The boy furrowed his brow, disgusted that a strange man had randomly spoken to him. “Whatever,” the boy muttered, hurrying into a store that he didn’t need to go into.

God sighed and kept walking down the street. His whole body ached. His skin felt raw, baked from the sun. He knew no one would believe him. But he had come to Earth to ask for help. Someone, one of his creations, still had to care.

Though he had his doubts after seeing the amount of garbage stuck in the gutter and nearby foliage.

Someone had to be willing to help. Right?

No response.

She started walking, nearly shuffling so as not to trip and fall.

“Hello?” she called out again after a few minutes.

Still no response, but a faint glow appeared in front of her, growing larger the closer she got. The glow eventually took the shape of a boy, sitting on his knees. He and the glow around him were grey, like he was a character unable to be interacted with at this time. However, that didn’t stop Little Maddie from trying.

She knelt beside him. It was the boy from earlier, Little Hank. “Hey,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. The boy didn’t move. She waited a minute, and then nudged his arm. “Why’re you in here?”

“Safe,” the boy croaked out finally.

“From what?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.

“Everything.” He gave her a quick glance.

This deep sadness welled up inside of her. She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry that it’s all scary,” she said. “I still want you to come out and play.”

His eyes met hers. “Why?”

“Because I think we could have a lot of fun together.”

“You won’t hurt me?”

“Not on purpose,” she said, getting to her feet with her hand outstretched to him.

He considered her hand for a long moment. Finally, he took it and stood up.

Little Maddie looked down at their hands and gasped, surprised to see a bright rosy light around their hands. A calming warmth was spreading out from their palms.

“What’re you doing to me?” Little Hank snapped fearfully, tugging his hand away from hers.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, frowning.

“N-no… It’s just… Weird.” He held his hand with his other one, examining it.

“Come on,” she said, extending her hand again. The instant he put his hand in hers, she giggled, yelled “TAG!”, and took off running.

He gave chase, and soon they were both laughing and squealing as they ran around. The grey glow lightened to a warm amber. The more they laughed, the brighter the glow became. He finally tapped her arm as she tried to swerve by him. “Tag!”he exclaimed proudly. But she instantly tapped him back as he went to turn.

When they were finally worn out and deprived of oxygen, they sat down together side by side with their shoulders touching. The rosy light returned, enveloping them both. Little Hank marveled out. “I feel peaceful,” he said.

“Good.” Little Maddie smiled happily at him.

“Thank you.”

The second he spoke those words, everything snapped back to my front porch. Hank jumped and I was shoved through him and out to the yard by an unseen force. “The hell!” me and Hank said in unison.

“You good?” Joey asked Hank.

“Yeah, yeah,”Hank said, waving a hand dismissively. “Got shocked or somethin’.”

Joey hid a smirk. Good job, kid.

“Did it work? I asked, looking to my mom.

Gail shrugged. “Maybe. A dark, inky jellyfish thing shot out of him just before you were shoved over here. What did you do to him?” she asked.

“My inner child met his,” I replied. “She tried to heal his heart with love.” I saw the tears well up in my mom’s eyes.

“Damn, Maddie. That’s really beautiful.”

I shrugged, sighing as Hank and Joey finished locking up my house. Suddenly, my mom’s arms were around me.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said.

A sharp crack like a tree branch cut through the air then. Margy Hitta, the woman who had given me my unfinished business to-do list right after I died, appeared in front of me. Her dull orange hair was still in a messy bun. “It only took you ten years, but you did it.”

“What? Ten years? You’re lying!” I snapped. “It’s only been a few days.”

Margy shook her head. “Time moves differently on this side. But congrats, you can officially join the Afterlife.” She held out a Certificate of Completion to me.

I frowned, unimpressed and highly agitated.

Margy glared and shook the paper at me. “Take it and just move on already!”

I snatched the paper from her. “Fine!”

With a huff, she disappeared in a puff of campfire smoke that blew straight into my face. I coughed and waved it away with the paper.

“Congrats, honey, you’re one of us!” my mom cheered.

“What happens now?”

My mom shrugged. “Nothing. Or, whatever you want.”

“This is really underwhelming,” I said, folding up the certificate.

“That’s life,” my mom laughed with a big grin. “But hang on, let me see that.” She took the certificate and unfolded it as she walked over to my front porch. She set it on the top step. “There.”

I joined her, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Really, honey, you did good. Now both you and your father can move on,” she said, sliding an arm around me. “Let me show you what the Afterlife truly has to offer.” She was already steering me down the driveway.

Behind us, my father came around the side of the house and spotted the certificate on the porch. He picked it up. “Joe, is this some kind of joke? Why does this say “Thanks for throwing out all my shit!”?”

My mom giggled as she grabbed my hand and tugged me into the street.

“Mom!”

“What? I couldn’t resist.” She grinned cheekily.

A car barreled through us suddenly, and we were swept up in the wind behind it, free to go wherever the Afterlife would take us.

THE END

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Uncle Joey’s voice reverberated in my head. He could see me? Sense me? He almost looked right at me. I stayed where I was, watching him and my father disappear into my house. Finally, I went in after them, still in a bit of shock.

“Let’s clear out the basement and then we’ll go upstairs, and save the main floor for last,” my father was saying.

“…

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Smear them around?

Organize them?

Blur them together?

My inner child is guilty of taking every feeling and examining it from angle, memorizing every flaw, tracing every line. It’s exhausting. But it’s how she (we) learned to cope.

Now, we’re learning a new way to cope. Instead of overanalyzing, we identify the feeling. And that’s it. That feeling washes over us and we feel every bit of its weight, but we do not look at it. Most importantly: we do not abandon it. We do not ignore it.

Abandoning it means we abandon the person, the situation, the factor that brought it up. It surfaced from the deep for a reason, and it’s important to sit with it. Learn to be okay with being uncomfortable. To own it and then release it, like rehabilitating a wild animal and returning it to its proper home.

My inner child and I are finally coexisting. It’s a relief because for a long time it felt impossible to do. I wish everyone would learn to understand their inner child and work with them, because by doing so, their external relationships will flourish. To abandon your inner child is to abandon yourself, and ultimately those around you. If you have someone willing to sit in the mud with you, don’t let them go.

It’s work, yes. It’s hard, yes. But do it anyway. Put on your Grown-Ass Adult Pants, buckle down, and do the work.

She finally looks at me (something we’ve been working on all this time), and I see the big tears in the corners of her eyes.

I’m scared, she says.

Me too.

I can’t catch my breath.

Me either.

What do we do?

I shake my head and shrug, the world’s fire reflected in my eyes. It’s clear that we haven’t learned anything from history, and likely won’t learn from this either, and that this cycle will repeat until the earth is a drought-ridden, decaying rock.

My inner child has big feelings and so do I. Feelings that are hard to channel into action because our actions are limited. But here we stand in our little corner of the internet using our voice to remind people that pedophile rapists shouldn’t become president. Pedophile rapists should be ostracized and isolated and should no longer be part of society. That’s a no-brainer, right?

I just want to make things and be happy.

Me too. What do you want to make?

I want to keep writing my story.

How can we do that?

Make things feel less heavy.

Embers dance overhead and the smell of tear gas wafts toward us. Faint gunshots ring out.

If I could, I would.

The pool of blood creeps toward us.

Don’t let it touch us!

I’ll do my best.

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BANG
One bullet for your empathy
BANG BANG
Two bullets for your protection
BANG BANG BANG
Three bullets for your compassion
BANG BANG BANG BANG
Four bullets for your peace
Are you okay? 
Locked eyes for the worst to come
All over in scattered heartbeats
Wings to the sky above
Blood to the earth below
Another round another body another hole in the ground.
Monsters behind masks, with red hands and blank eyes and guns for spines. 
These are not the heroes you’re looking for. 
A flag tattered
Trampled
Torn
Which is louder, a gunshot or a mother’s mournful scream? 

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My heart holds many things.
Pounding and thumping
Rage
Agony
Grief
All of us stuck in a cage,
built by power, greed, and insecurity. 
If only it were brief...
Behind our smile is the wolf's grin. 
Sharp 
Traumatic
Final
Skin colors covered in marks,
Thoughts and prayers (semi) automatic. 
The injuries to our democracy are spinal.
We stood against each other for each other to end another. 
A wolf's grin in Mother Liberty's face. 
A bullet case falls to the ground
Clink, clink
Another round another body another round another body
There's nothing civil about war.

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There’s the lure of nothing. No more pain. No more stress. No more taxes. No more struggle or survival. In death, we can just exist.

Or so I had naively thought.

Here I was in the Afterlife, staring at my VCR with it’s reset clock to the time I had been mowed down by a bus because I had unfinished business I need to tie up for some reason. Why couldn’t I have just walked into the Afterlife and ghosted happily ever after?

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“I don’t think this’ll work,” I said.

“Of course it will,” my mom replied, ever the optimist in death. It was very different from how she’d been alive. “You just have to do like we practiced.”

“I still don’t understand how any of this works.”

We’d spent well over an hour on the lawn practicing charging up and directing my energy. So far I’d been able to move a small stick and roll a disintegrating tennis ball five inches. The VCR was several feet off the ground and much, much heavier.

“It’s all about intent and energy. So, just like you practiced, focus on what you want do with that VCR.”

“What if someone comes in while I have it midair?”

My mom waved her hand dismissively. “Won’t happen. Don’t think about it. Now, quit stalling and get to work. It ain’t gonna move itself.”

Oh, how I wished it would. But I inhaled slowly, squared my stance, and locked my eyes on my target. Come on, move! I thought. And just like I’d predicted, nothing happened.

“You look like you’re trying to take a shit,” my mom laughed after a minute.

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It couldn’t really be her in the backseat, arms spread wide and her legs crossed. Never had I seen her so relaxed.

“Hey, sweetheart. How ya doin’?” she asked, smiling big.

She’s at peace, I noted. Something I had hoped for when she passed but had always wondered about.

“Um, well, not great,” I said. “I’m dead.” The words hit me like the bus had that morning. I was admitting it. And it hurt, but also felt really good.

“Yeah, that was tough to watch. But I’m glad it was instant for you. Glad you didn’t suffer.” She leaned forward and put a hand on my shoulder. How were ghosts able to touch each other?

I turned more in my seat. “You watched?”

She nodded.

“You watched me get run over.”

Again she nodded. “Technically, you weren’t run over. You were hit and thrown a little.”

“I feel like that’s semantics at this point, Mom.”

“It matters because it’s what it says in your Death Record. They’re sticklers for details.”

“Who’re you talking about?”

“The people that run this show. Upper management.”

I frowned as I listened. “So… there’s no God?”

She shrugged. “Yes and no. Just not in the way Bible Thumpers would have you believe.”

My mom had always been an acquired taste.

“Wait, what’re you doing here in Joey’s car with me?” I asked as we pulled into his driveway and parked. Joey, seemingly unaware of my presence now, got out and went into his house. I watched as the living room light came on, and then a hall light upstairs a minute later.

“I’m here to give guidance on your to-do list,” my mom replied, now sitting in the driver’s seat and also watching as Joey turned on more lights around the house.

“Help or just guidance?” I asked, looking to her.

“You already know the answer to that,” she said, smiling gently as she shifted her eyes to me.

I sighed heavily, going through my three items. Make amends with my father. Reset the VCR clock. Find a cat I don’t own and help it cross over.

“What’s your question?”

“I have way too many.”

“Pick the most pressing one, then.”

The silence stretched out long between us as I thought through question after question. I closed my eyes, feeling like the walls were closing in on me. At least I can walk through them now, I reminded myself. “I guess,” I said, looking back at my mom, “how can I touch physical objects? Or better yet, how do I become a poltergeist? Because you know that’ll be the only way to get Dad’s attention.”

Her laugh rang out loud and pure in the car. “You’re absolutely right about that!” She sat up straighter in the seat and put her hands in the wheel. “Honey, you’re kind of doing it now just by sitting in that seat.”

I looked down at myself. Sure enough, I was touching the seat. I had been certain that I was floating just above it.

“It’s something you can’t think about too much, but at the same time, you have to think about directing your energy. It’s like dancing tango. You have to direct your energy toward your partner and vice versa.”

I blinked. “Tango? What do you know about tango?”

“It was always a dream of mine to learn and now that I have the time, I’ve been taking lessons.” She said this casually, like talking about the weather.

“Mom, you’ve been taking ghost dance lessons?” I asked, flabbergasted.

“What? A ghost can learn new tricks, too!” she exclaimed, actually offended.

I shook my head as I waved my hand, trying to fan away my disbelief.

“Being dead gets boring after a while. You’ll see.” Now she was outside of the car. “Come on, let me show you.”

I joined her on the dark lawn. There was only one streetlamp near us, but she was illuminated like a full moon on a clear night. She closed the space between us until we were only a foot apart. “Okay,” she began. “Direct your energy toward me like you’re coming at me, but don’t actually move. Let me feel what you got.”

I nodded. “Got it.” I squared my stance, stared into her eyes, and thought hard about walking toward her.

She smirked and then giggled, shaking her head. “It’s like you were on a conveyor belt and just drifted toward me. I didn’t feel you at all, but you certainly moved.”

Blinking, I realized that I was now only a few inches from her. “H-how did that happen?” I stammered.

“You’re on autopilot and likely some muscle memory too.” She moved away back some. “Try again.”

I was suddenly hit with a memory so powerful that it froze me. In my mind, I could see myself standing in the entryway to my childhood home. My mom was repeating, “I have to leave. I have to leave.”

My parents came into view from the living room. “What do you mean you have to leave?” my father demanded. “Gail, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Hank! I have to leave or I will die here with you!” Her suitcase was in one hand, her purse in the other. She put down the suitcase to search for her keys in the bowl on the table by the door.

Hank stood there, stone-faced. “You’re being dramatic. You know I can’t stand that shit.”

Gail jerked up her head to stare at him with an icy glare. “You are the most miserable person I know,” she said, her voice low and venomous.

He rolled his eyes. “Who’s gonna take care of Maddie?”

“We both will in the future, but for tonight, it’s all on you.” She found her keys, grabbed up her suitcase, and marched out the door.

I could still remember the cold concrete porch on my bare feet as I ran out after her. “Mom!” I’d called. She’d turned back toward me and smiled sadly.

“I can’t try again, sweetheart. I can’t, and I’m so sorry,” she said, backing up slowly into the darkness. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow after school.”

“Mom! Mom!”

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

Her excited voice brought me back and I blinked a few times. What had happened? I looked around and saw nothing had changed. I was still in the same spot.

“I felt you charge me like an angry bull!” she exclaimed. “That’s the energy you need to channel!”

I stared at her, feeling just as lost as I had the day she’d left. She’d come back for me the next day, just like she’d said, but it wasn’t the same. Nothing was the same after that day.

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My father stood across from me, unable to see me watching him. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes as he once again looked around the basement. “Just like your mother,” he said aloud to the room.

Anger instantly flashed through me. It was a line he’d always thrown at me when he was pissed about something I’d done. An extra layer of punishment.

“Hank?” a man’s voice called from upstairs, walking heavily toward the basement door.

“Here.” My father’s tone was sharp.

“Where’s here?” The man rounded the corner and peered around the door down at my father. It was my father’s longtime friend, Joey. I had always called him Uncle Joey. “You okay?” he asked, coming down the steps.

“Look at this shit,” Hank said, gesturing at my shelves.

I watched as Joey took it in. “At least it seems to be somewhat organized,” he noted.

“Look closer. See all the little things filling the gaps?” With noticeable effort, Hank stepped off the last step onto the basement floor. I didn’t remember him being such a large man.

Joey followed him, hands on his hips. I could tell he was already formulating a plan on how to tackle this project. My anger had faded away and had been replaced with deep aching sadness.

I was now a project. I wasn’t even in the ground yet. My body wasn’t even cold!

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I remember thinking that everything had felt perfect as I walked down the street toward the shop. Everyone I passed had smiled or nodded at me. It was like we all were vibing together as a community. So, it was hard for me to come to terms with the fact I was now dead, because an hour ago, everything had been fine. Instead of clocking into work, my soul or whatever was now being flushed down a toilet.

When the sound of rushing water finally ceased and I could focus on my surroundings again, I realized I was back on that very same street where the bus had mowed me down. I blinked and looked around. The crowd had dispersed and the officers had put up caution tape around the bus and part of the street and the sidewalk. The bus driver was sitting on the curb with his head in hands. I couldn’t tell if he was crying or sleeping. An officer was putting down yellow markers next to every piece of debris or trash that might be evidence. It was quiet. No engines revved, no crosswalks beeped, no horns honked, and no one shouted.

My eyes then landed on the gurney with a black body bag on it. It was being loaded into the coroner’s van. That was my body. I swallowed, an intense, indescribable feeling washing over me. I thought back to my unfinished business list where task number one was to make amends with Hank Pria. I shook my head and turned, walking back down the street toward my house.

It felt like only a couple seconds had passed before I was standing outside of my front door. I stared at it, then looked left to my neighbor Trisha’s house. Her kitchen window faced my house, and she always had it open. She lived alone, and somehow no one had taken advantage of the open window. I looked to my right at my neighbors Mark and Mitch’s house. They had a glorious garden along the whole perimeter of their front yard. Flowers towered over the fence and blocked my view of their lawn. Usually they could be heard bickering from the front porch about their current renovation project, but they were quiet today. Had they heard? Did any of my neighbors know?

Already I felt like a stranger in my own house as I stepped over the threshold. Admittedly, there was a part of me that thought I wasn’t going to be allowed to enter, but I reminded myself that that only applied to vampires. On a positive note, I could now walk through doors and walls. It felt like walking through a thick spiderweb, which wasn’t great, but handy. As I stood in the middle of my main level, I mulled over the list some more. Make amends, help a pet cat named Tiff cross over (I didn’t own a cat), and reset the VCR clock. The last one was bothering me, so I decided to tackle it first. I couldn’t even remember when I last saw my VCR.

I started in the obvious place first: the living room. I scanned the shelves under the TV for a VCR. Not seeing it there, I moved to a hall closet which had become a catch-all closet. The door was closed and when I tried to grab the knob, my hand went straight through. I sighed heavily, my annoyance rising. I tried to grab it again and got the same result. I could feel my jaw tightening. I knew I could just step through the door, but now it was the principle of the thing. I wanted to be able to open the closet and look through it normally.

The word caught me off guard.

Normal.

What did that even mean anymore? What did that look like now?

One thing at a time, I told myself.

I sighed again and partially stepped through the closet door, looking at the top shelf where all my winter hats and gloves were. Nothing. I looked at the ground where shoes and random tools were thrown in haphazardly. I chastised myself for not being more organized. I slowly made my way through the rest of the house, sticking my head into every nook and cranny I could think of.

By the time I got to the basement, the afternoon sunlight was shining through the windows. A few rows of shelves piled high with boxes and bags greeted me. Had I been part weasel where I would just stash things wherever I could find space? I slowly looked the shelves over from top to bottom, and I was about to give up when I spotted in the back corner of the last shelf a black trash bag. On its side was slapped a piece of masking tape with the letters VCR written on it in red sharpie.

“Holy shit,” I gasped aloud, staring up at it. “Now how the hell am I supposed to get this down?”

I racked my brain on several different ways on how to get the bag down, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized nothing was going to work except for one thing: I was somehow going to have to become a poltergeist.

I paced back and forth, going over every ghost movie I’d ever seen. The one thing the poltergeists had in common was being able to generate enough energy to move objects. But how? I stopped and stared at the box a moment before I continued pacing. My thoughts were now racing as panic began to set in. This was impossible!

I paced faster, my breath starting to hitch in my chest. Did I still have oxygen? The dead don’t need air, right? But why did it feel like I was hyperventilating? I stopped with my hand on my chest, trying to catch my breath. I squeezed my eyes shut in an attempt to block out the sensation of impending doom.

This was bad. It all was very bad. I was dead and there was no way I could get to my VCR to reset the clock. There was no way I could find Tiff the cat, and there was certainly no way I could make amends with my father, Hank Pria. I was helpless. Powerless. I couldn’t do anything for myself anymore.

I was dead. Period. No going back. No redo. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing mattered to begin with.

My thoughts spiraled more and more as I bent over, unable to rein myself in. It felt like shards of glass in my dry throat with every breath I took. How could I still feel any of this?

Suddenly, the front door opened and shut, and heavy footsteps lumbered across the floor above me. I went quiet, listening. Who the hell was in my house? The steps made their way over to the basement door, which then opened, and the stairs creaked as they descended. I was about to run and hide when I realized that there was no point in doing so. I stood at the end of the shelf as my father came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and squinted in the bleak light.

“Goddamn it, Maddie. What on earth am I supposed to do with all this shit?” he said, gesturing at the shelves.

It was the first time I’d seen or heard my father in nearly twenty years.

The tires screeched on the pavement, and then everything went black. I didn’t feel anything. In fact, I didn’t feel anything at all anymore. There had been a brief moment of pain, like I’d stubbed my toe, but nothing more. I sat up in the darkness and looked around. There was nothing to see. I tried to listen for sounds, but again, nothing. I frowned. Well, that can’t be good.

Then, everything came back into view around me, but the image was blurred. People were rushing into the street, a few gesturing to others to make a call. I blinked, getting to my feet. I went over to where the crowd had gathered. I craned my neck to see and tried to push through, but they wouldn’t move. They acted like I wasn’t there. But then a space opened up and I looked through to see myself lying on the asphalt. My limbs were twisted under me, blood soaked my hair, and one of my shoes was missing.

This can’t be right, I thought. That can’t be me, it has to be someone else. But that was the same watch I wore everyday; the same pair of bracelets; the same flower tattoo on my wrist. Was the universe pranking me? Is that what we’re doing now, tricking people into thinking they’ve just been hit by a bus?

I backed away as people rushed through me. Holy shit. I was really dead? Holy shit. The ground suddenly opened up beneath me and I fell into the deepest darkness I’d ever known. Somehow, I landed on my feet. I did still have feet, right? Not just a Casper the ghost tail? I looked down to check. I did, in fact, still have feet and both of my shoes. The wave of relief that I felt was overwhelming, which took me by surprise because I was certain I’d never feel emotions like that again.

“Maddie Pria?” a voice asked from the darkness.

I turned around, looking for who was speaking. I had turned in a full circle before my surroundings shifted to a bland hallway with a dingy white tile floor and in front of me was a woman with dull orange hair sticking out in every direction from a messy bun.

“Maddie?” she asked again, sounding bored.

“Uh, yeah? Me?” I pointed at my chest.

“Come.” She turned on her heel and walked away, each footstep clicking down the hallway with purpose.

A shot of anger flared inside of me. I wasn’t a dog to be summoned. But, I hurried after her anyway.

We walked and walked with no clear direction apparent to me. I felt like if I were to ask a question, this woman was gonna whip around and shush me like a Catholic nun. Right as my patience with all this walking was wearing thin, the woman took a sudden left turn into an office that I was sure had not been there a moment ago.

“Sit,” she ordered, going around to the other side of the desk and sitting down.

I reluctantly sat down in the cold, metal folding chair. Her office was cluttered with stacks of boxes, books, and folders. The single fluorescent light above the desk flickered. She logged into her computer that I was sure was a Windows ’98 model. The clacking sound of the keyboard was oddly comforting. Somewhere behind her an old printer came to life and began printing. I leaned forward to try and get a look at her screen, but she shot me an icy glare and cleared her throat. I returned her glare but sat back into my seat.

Finally, she reached behind her and grabbed the papers off the printer, which turned out to be a packet of at least twenty-five pages. She wrestled over the stapler that had a wide base for big jobs like this one. Ka-thunk! After the packet was stapled, she thumbed through it, licking her thumb to help turn the page. Near the end of the packet, she pulled out a pen and signed a couple pages.

“Here.” She tossed the packet toward me. “Look through it and then sign where I did.” Her eyes were focused on the computer screen.

“Um, what is this?” I asked, picking up the packet with just my thumb and index finger like it had literal shit all over it.

“The terms and conditions of your death,” she explained, a hint of annoyance in her tone.

“Excuse me, what?” Now I wasn’t treating it so delicately. I flipped through the packet, picking out lines that read “…ran over by bus…” and “…no beneficiaries…” and “...any friends?”

The woman leveled her gaze at me from behind the desk. “Do you accept the terms and conditions?”

“Do people really read through this? And why is this even a thing?” I asked, bewildered, if not a bit horrified. “What am I even agreeing to?”

The woman sighed and rubbed her face. “Most people just sign without reading it. The important part is the last page that lists your unfinished business. You can’t proceed to Afterlife until you complete it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snapped, yanking the packet open to the last page.

My list read:

1.) Make amends with Hank Pria

2.) Find pet cat, Tiff, and help her cross over

3.) Reset VCR clock

After the third item was the lady’s signature, which I made out to be Margy Hitta. Beneath her name was a blank line for me to sign. I shook my head. “There’s no way I’m doing this. I don’t agree. I don’t accept.”

Margy shrugged and leaned back in her chair. “Purgatory ain’t much fun, hon. You just sit in one of those carnival swing rides that spins in a circle while some kid behind you plays a kazoo.”

“That sounds more like hell.”

“It is what it is to you,” she replied, pulling out a vape pen and sucking on it. She blew blue raspberry smoke at me.

I coughed hard, vigorously fanning the smoke out of my face. Good to know that death was just as annoying as living. Without another word, I angrily signed and tossed the packet back across the desk. Margy thumped it with a stamp that read in big letters ACCEPTED.

“Now what?” I asked as she filed it away in a filing cabinet that surely couldn’t hold any more.

“You go to work,” she replied, pulling out a plastic bag with a large hole in the side. I could see clothing inside it. She held over the bag. “Change into these. They’ll allow you passage back into Living Land. Take a left and go down the hall, first door on the right is the bathroom. Once you’ve thrown your current clothes into the trash can, go into the handicap stall and flush the toilet three times.”

I felt like I was trapped in an asylum, but I followed Margy’s directions to the bathroom. I changed into the grey tracksuit that was provided to me in the holey plastic bag. I threw away my clothes, a surprising amount of sadness building up inside of me as I did so.

I’m dead? It really happened?

I walked into the handicap stall. Do I shut the door? It felt strange not to, but strange to do so.

I locked it.

As I stood in front of the toilet, I thought over my to-do list, the items finally starting to register in my brain. Why on earth would I need to reset my VCR clock? Did I even have one?

I stared into the toilet water. I looked the same, minus the clothes that weren’t mine and the dark circles that were now under my eyes. Dying makes you tired, I guess. I studied the toilet closer and realized it was an automatic flusher, but I didn’t see the button they normally had tucked away to manually flush it.

I huffed, gesturing angrily at the toilet. “Of course this is how it is. Can’t escape this shit even in death!”

Feeling like an idiot, I moved out of the way of the sensor three times. Each time, it was slow to flush. On the last flush, I leaned forward to get a better view of the water going down. That was when I was abruptly pushed head first into the toilet.

“Don’t forget the VCR!” Margy shouted after me as everything spun into darkness.

Growing up, our perfectionism strayed into the toxic range because it was hard for us to move on to the next stage. Now, we’ve learned how to channel that into something that is a high priority, and if it’s not, then we let it go. Doesn’t mean we won’t look back at it longingly, wondering if we could make it work, but we’re able to still walk away from it.

Today’s world is so much different from the world we grew up in, and it’s been a harsh realization that we’ll never have to stop working to prove ourselves while the slackers get all the credit. It sucks having to fight for your place at the table. This is something my inner child is constantly exhausted from, especially when job hunting. Requirements are good, it helps guide the recruiter to the right candidates, but now there are so many factors working against the candidates that even being seen feels hopeless. I feel like I would have better odds at getting bitten by a shark on land than getting noticed by a decent job.

Will our work ever pay off?

I look at my inner child and shrug. Her curtain of hair still hides her face, but I can tell she’s close to facing me.

Maybe one day, I tell her.

We have to do something different to stand out.

You’re right, and I’ve been trying to come up with some ideas.

It feels like there are no more original thoughts. Like everything has already been created.

Maybe we need to get into a niche.

That feels impossible.

Her sigh is heavy like how my soul feels. We lean against each other and I put my arm around her.

Everything hurts.

What do you mean?

Nothing feels good. It’s just pain and despair.

We can’t think like that.

I don’t know how else to think anymore.

I think it’s time you rested. Let me figure things out.

I’m tired of struggling. I’m tired of being tired.

Let’s remember to enjoy the things that make us happy. Keep focused on that.

What are you supposed to do when every fiber of your soul is tired? And you know that this isn’t your soul’s first time at the rodeo. We’ve lived many hard lives, and it feels like each life is an even worse boss fight. I guess it’s a good way to get acquainted with your inner workings. You can finesse the details in each life. You can finally learn how to sit with your inner child and have a productive conversation. Maybe one day, you both can walk forward together, ready to face the challenges that seem to be never-ending.

And what does a kid know of grief? Not much, except that the sadness is crushing.

So, how does one move through grief? Or get over it? Or deal with it?

Great question, and I have no idea how to answer that. Because even though my inner child and I are experts on having grief, I don’t think either of us can write a playbook on how to handle it. You just kinda have to keep going with life.

But what I noticed, is that there are moments that will address your grief, even if you’re not directly involved in a situation. A scene in a TV show might bring forth a wave of intense and painful grief, or the smell of someone’s soap as you pass them on the sidewalk. Grief is everywhere and nowhere all at once. There are days when I don’t think about the concept of grief or what I might still be grieving, and then there are days that that’s all I can think about. That’s when I get stuck in a room deep inside my brain, and that room is often where I find my inner child hiding.

Today I ask her, “Why are you crying?”

She shakes her head, wiping tears away. Because a friend’s dad died.

I tilt my head, surprised. “Did you know him?”

She shakes her head again. No.

“Then why are you crying?”

She wipes more tears away. Because our dad died, too.

“True, but that was nearly 15 years ago.”

What does that have to do with anything?

She was right. Grief and time often have nothing to do with each other, even though many will say that the grief will lessen the more time that passes. But I don’t think that’s always the case. I think your brain just puts the grief in a box, and at the most random of times will take it out and bring it into the light so you’re forced to look at it, touch it, and feel it.

I reach out to try and hug my inner child, and at first she resists me, but then slowly leans into me. Still stiff as a board, though. I still can’t see her face through all the hair, but at least she’s not deliberately trying to avoid my gaze. As she leans into me more, I can feel just how heavy she really is. And she feels as if she weighs more than a freight train. It’s the weight of all the burdens that she carries that I have yet to remove from her. But I know that in this moment, because I didn’t argue with her, I can remove just one tiny brick and lighten her load. But this is the burden of grief, and I’m not sure that I’ll have be able to fully take all the bricks from her, but I certainly want to try.