I’ve been told by folks with more mathematical brains than mine that time is not linear. It’s more like a pile of slides, all looked through in unison by something too big and great to have eyes like we understand them. We, on the other hand, are linear creatures. We experience it linearly because it’s the best we can do. This means a lot for a lot of different people. For me, it means ghosts make more sense and so does trauma.
The revolutionary thought comes with the incredible idea that maybe so does joy, too.
At the same time that my mother lay dying, we were visiting the Plaza in NYC. We snuck in, because my mom, while righteous in her code of conduct, had no problem lying or sneaking for what she deemed a good reason. We snuck all the way up to the top, where amazingly there existed a hallway made entirely of mirrors. I was the one that realized what we could do with this, and when I stood half inside the mirror and lifted my visible arm and leg, my mom laughed so hard she choked on her tongue and security came and thought she was drunk and that we were crazy especially when, as he was trying to escort us out, I said “Wait, wait,” and did it again.
My mom was crying she was laughing so hard. In another slice of time, happening in tandem, she kissed her own hand because she couldn’t feel it anymore and thought the weight on her stomach was my hand. My sister and I, so dazed with grief, burst out laughing.
She was nearly comatose. But she still let out a dry chuckle, and we all died together, right then and there, in unison. The great God peering through its time toy blinks, and we are over, all at once. How lovely it was.
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