>Talking to Her

>My friend Ashley, a dancer and Circus Amok ring performer, asked me yesterday if I could marry someone who spoke to the dead, would I want to? I knew what she was asking. She was asking, If you could talk to Meg, would you?

I told her I wouldn’t. What would Meg have to say to me, I thought, that she didn’t already say when she was living? The things I want to know aren’t things that she, specifically, would have to tell me (although I would appreciate them from her sensitive yet removed perspective): What is the journey like? Is there a tunnel of white light? Do the angels play harps? And, as I’ve written before, did you get all the text messages I sent after you died?

What a scene at your memorial service, I might say, with that long strange painting hung on the curtain, and the very colorful…quilt?…shawl?…draped over the podium. When you-know-who said you-know-what and I thought you might send lightning down to smite her–but I knew you wouldn’t because you’re like that. Or you’re not like that.

I suppose I would want to talk with Meg. But if I can’t, that’s fine too. The last words she said to me were ‘Happy Fucking Birthday,’ which I cherish unlike anything else in this world. So–in our many nights laying awake in my bed together, stacks of letters, phone calls so long both my cell phone and cordless land-line went dead–we said basically everything we needed to say to each other.

I won’t write “as if we knew.” Because we didn’t.

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