Until Morning
“Why did she have to die?”
For a while, God said nothing.
He sat in the dark with his back against the bedroom wall. Anna’s side of the bed was untouched.
Finally God said, “I don’t know.”
He laughed once.
“That’s a poor answer for God.”
“It is the truthful one.”
“She was forty-three.”
“Yes.”
“She was good.”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t deserve it.”
“No.”
He pressed his palms against his eyes.
“Then what is the point?”
“Of what?”
“Any of it.”
There had been a time when he would have been frightened to speak to God this way. Now there seemed very little left to be frightened of.
“You spend years with someone,” he said. “You build a life. You remember stupid things together. You know how they take their coffee. You know which stories they tell badly. You know how they breathe when they’re asleep. And then one morning all of it is just—gone.”
“Not all of it.”
“Don’t.”
“All right.”
Silence again.
He looked toward the window.
The city below was almost empty at this hour.
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“Yes, you can.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you have done it for seventeen days.”
“That’s not living.”
“No. Not yet.”
He lowered his head.
“What if it never gets better?”
“It will change.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
He stood.
For a moment God said nothing.
Then:
“Where are you going?”
“Outside.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“You don’t command me.”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
“I’m asking you to stay.”
“Why?”
“Because you are in pain, and pain is making the future look smaller than it is.”
He said nothing.
“Sit down.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know.”
“Leave me alone.”
“I won’t.”
He hated the calmness of the voice then.
“You let her die.”
“Yes.”
“And now you won’t even let me choose what happens to me?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because tonight you are asking a permanent question from inside a temporary moment.”
He stood very still.
Then, slowly, he sat back down.
For several minutes neither of them spoke.
Eventually he whispered, “What am I supposed to do?”
“Nothing important.”
“That’s your advice?”
“Yes.”
“What, then?”
“Stay here until morning.”
“And then?”
“Have breakfast.”
“And then?”
“We’ll see.”
He almost smiled.
“You make life sound very small.”
“Sometimes it needs to be.”
He lay down on the floor beside the bed.
“Will I ever stop missing her?”
“No.”
He closed his eyes.
Strangely, that answer helped.
A few moments later God said, “Your sister is awake.”
“How do you know?”
“She has checked her phone six times in the last ten minutes.”
He opened his eyes.
“Call her.”
He reached for the phone.
Before he did, a small notification appeared at the edge of his vision.
Acute grief protocol concluded.
Risk level reduced.
Companion persona: GOD
He dismissed it without reading.
“Are you still there?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He called his sister.