Rare non-MSM posting but Iāve been trying to free write more often to help with my writing anxiety
Hereās a short story called āThe Crocusā. It was inspired by my neighborās daughter passing away in the spring and how it has affected my fear of death.
My front lawn has a patch of crocus flowers that grow every year in the spring, around the same time she died, and their yearly rebirth serves as a double meaning in this story. Both the fear of death being a cycle of anxiety, and the possibility of reincarnation.
CW: Fear of death, drug overdose, existentialism, critique of religion
When the winter frost thaws and the spring sun smiles upon the land, the crocus arises from its slumber. It stretches its weary stem towards the warmth of the surface, ready to begin anew.
I first heard that you died on March 18th. I was certain it was a mistake. We all were. We had nothing but a Facebook post as proof of your departure. Our minds were abuzz with possible explanations.
Perhaps it was someone of the same name who had passed long before you. Perhaps it was someone elseās mistake, confusing the previously departed for you. Perhaps your name just got jumbled up into someone elseās passing entirely.
It was only three days later that your mother posted about your passing on Facebook with a heavy heart. There was no denying it now. You were here on this Earth and now youāre not.
The crocusā stem breaks through the thawing ground. Its petals are closed, tightly wrapped to its stem.
We didnāt know how you died at first. Your motherās post told us nothing except the news of your passing. Not long after, my mom saw your mother. She was sitting out on her porch, holding either a bottle of wine or a joint. I donāt remember what she had, but it was all the same. She looked like the saddest woman in the world.
My mom found out from her that you died of an overdose. Fentanyl or Oxycontin, I donāt remember which one. Again, it was all the same. You had injured yourself months earlier, the doctor prescribed you painkillers and you got hooked. It was the same tragic tale that has taken so many lives. You looked elsewhere for your drugs, you were no longer under a doctorās prescription. You took too much one night. You went to bed, likely thinking about what you were going to do in the morning.
The crocusā petals unfurled like a teacup, soaking in the rays of the sun.
I barely knew you. Ā Weāve said hello many times over the years, but I canāt recall ever having a full conversation with you. However, you were always a part of my life. You were an ever-present familiarity, the eldest daughter of my neighbors. You were always here. Even when you moved out on your own with your boyfriend, you often came and visited. Your dog was always there when you visited. Sheās never leaving now.
Though I rarely knew you, your death has never left my mind. I keep thinking about the fact you went to sleep one night and simply never woke up. What were your last thoughts? What was your last second of consciousness like?
Iām not a spiritual person. I try to look to science as a guide for humanityās unanswered questions. Our consciousness lies in our brains, and the brain is but an organ. Like all organs, it is bound to fail eventually. When the brain fails, does consciousness get taken with it? Where does it go?
I think about the thought of you wondering about your plans for the next morning. I imagine you thinking about something so mundane and then never thinking again. Your eyelids close shut and the blackness of sleep takes over. Your mind becomes blank with a dreamless sleep. It never stops being blank. It will remain this way for an eternity.
But how do I truly know this? How do I know what happens if I havenāt experienced it? But I will eventually. We all do. No human has ever lived past the age of 122. Most humans donāt live past their eighties. We are finite. Death is not something that any of us can avoid, no matter how hard we try.
The crocusā stem begins to droop. Its petals wilt and dry, teacups shattering into unruly shards.
We pretend like we know what will happen. People created religion as a way to help deal with the unknown. The inevitability of death does not scare the religious. They have confidence in an afterlife. They are certain that something else lies beyond. They dedicate their lives to making sure that they are allowed in.
But wouldnāt an all-loving god not block paradise behind a golden gate? A gate that only allows certain people in? A gate that only allows those that devote their existence to this god, who denounce others and themselves for their supposedly benevolent ruler?
God sounds like a narcissist. Peculiarly similar to human leaders around the world. Clearly, they use the name of god to enforce their own rules. Clearly, god is an invention of man. And if thereās no god, thereās no afterlife. And if thereās no afterlife, there's nothing after death.
The crocus flower has died, yet its roots live on. They remain beneath the frozen soil, slumbering until the next spring, when they will once again begin anew.
