Independence Cemetery is such an ironic name for a cemetery. There is no independence in death. The prospect itself highlights the eternal marriage of a person to a deep sleep. In this respect, I just got a divorce, without the lawyers or the vindictive ex. As I dug myself out of my lowly grave, the sun’s crepuscular curtains of light filled my heart with ambition.

I spat out the worms that nested in my mouth for God knows how long, and took a long overdue stretch. It is worth noting from my experiences that bugs do not taste like chicken. I am clueless as to why this is the default description of the taste of so many unusual delicacies, but I digress. Immediately adjacent to my gravestone was a lone marigold. It danced in the breeze without a partner, as if to keep me company. The thought made me smile, so I picked it, and I held it in my hand.

I remember requesting my relatives to write a thoughtful, yet humble obituary. A simple statement, not too grandiose, that would highlight me as a person and my life’s value. On this end, they served me some serious injustice:


In Memory of Charles,


A Loving Son

Who Tried His Very Best


I don’t recall asking for a haiku with some extra syllables. Apparently I “tried,” but did not “do.” My second life was off to a rough start.

As I surveyed my surroundings, my senses consumed a platter of sensations: the whisper of the breeze, the pinching scent of mowed grass, and the discordant chorus of cars driving by. Two little critters stood out from the scene and caught my eye. Two squirrels were mating under an oak tree. The female seemed quite platonic while the male showed intense effort with a rapid tempo of pelvic thrusts. Even for an animal, his eyes were wide open with a drunken look of ecstasy as if no other sensation had excited him so. As soon as the act was finished, the male parted with urgency, as if he felt uncomfortable enduring the aftermath of unprotected sex. Observing this was quite an experience, as I felt it was an uncanny reflection of my experience with women, except I was actually drunk. Needless to say, I was well educated on the subject of risky behaviors.

Then it struck me. Why am I here? I was too engulfed in the act of soaking in my new state of mind and body that I forgot how absurd my circumstances were. The latest memory of mine is a demon painfully prodding me in the buttocks with his trident. Hell, by the way, did not strike me as particularly horrific. Then again, I was only in the second circle. There was fire, yes, and smoke, but everyone was naked, so occasionally I had the good fortune of getting a glimpse at some attractive women. Is that a sin? If so, I can proudly say that I sinned in hell, and experienced the epitome of irony.

However, I should not enslave myself in the chains of the past, but embrace the divine liberation that I now have. I chose to begin the new chapter of my life with a blank slate, with a confession to a Catholic priest. There was an elegant cathedral nearby, a ghastly fusion of gothic and modern aesthetics, but with a certain magnetic ambiance. It had three towering spires, which I assumed represented the Holy Trinity. I opened the door in silence. Not a soul noticed me, so I quietly snooped around for the confession area, and took a seat.
I heard the patient, yet uneven breathing of a priest. Remembering the format of a confession was the most difficult part, but I began after somehow recalling the traditional dialogue.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” I began. “It has been an unknown amount of time since my last confession, which was when I was about seven or eight years of age. These are my sins: lying to my fiancé, public drunkenness, extreme anger directed towards professional sports teams, cursing, and laziness. I have committed these offenses an unknown number of times. For these and all my past sins, I am very sorry.”

“Too many men of God nowadays are guilty of such reckless sins. Be grateful and praise Him, He who has spared you of the dire consequences of such actions. Your life is short, so live it with righteousness. Show your guilt and willingness to pay for your sins by helping our church build the new youth worship area. We need strong hands to carry around the cinderblocks.”

“That sounds just, Father, but I have a pressing concern.”

“And what may that concern be?”

“Well, this is my second life,” I explained, “ and I do not know if repenting for my sins of my first life will make God look any more kindly upon me. I’m supposed to be dead.”

“You mean, you do not know if your second, spiritually renewed life should start by dwelling on the sins of your firs-”

“Father, I don’t think you understand. I died. I tried to dodge a deer and drove my car into a ravine.”

“Many Christians, including yourself, have a life-changing experience that renews their faith and replenishes their hearts. However, this does not mean that-”

“Forget the formalities. I freaking died. My heart stopped.”

“I wish you would stop interrupting me,” the Father complained, changing his tone.

“I wish you would look into the literal meaning of the words and stop taking my statements for something they aren’t.”

“You mean to tell me that you came back from the dead? Only Jesus, the son of our heavenly Father, the prince of peace, has done that,” he exclaimed.

“Does this mean I’m Jesus?”

“You insolent, disrespectful, moronic, faithless agent of evil,” the priest said in a choppy, frustrated rhythm. “How dare you place yourself, even in thought, in the place of our savior, the chosen one? Your life will be full of misery, of pain, and sadness in the utmost potency if you cannot learn to repent! Stop your disgracing of this house of God and repent!”

“I just asked a question…”

At this moment, the surprisingly volatile priest let out a fierce growl that resembled a cross between a mountain lion and a moaning elephant. I cannot conjure up any adjectives superfluous enough to describe it; it was simply weird. Very weird. He got up out of his seat and laid his eyes upon me, violating the procedure for confessions. For a moment, I thought he would assault me. However, as quickly as he erupted into this violent caprice, the blood in his face drained and his complexion turned into a vapid, milky white.

“God help me against this agent of Satan!” And with that, he fainted.

I sat there, perplexed, and stared blankly onto the priest’s body for a few minutes. I had simply no idea why I shocked him so. Then, I did the obvious, and looked at myself. It was horrid.

My skin was dark green, a positively revolting hide deprived of moisture, and plagued with wrinkles that rolled endlessly. I walked over to the small, stone bowl of holy water, and saw that my teeth were yellowed with an orange tint. My eyes seemed to sink into my face, and all but a few strands of my hair were gone. I looked like a cross between Dr. Seuss’ grinch and gollum from the “Lord of the Rings.”

As I looked up from my reflection in the water, colors shifted. The gray walls turned from a blue, to a pink, to a lime green. My feet swelled into the size of a bowling ball, then to the size of a marble. A tree uprooted itself and walked into the cathedral and started praying, the crucifix on the wall started melting, and the pews began to dance. The roof flew off the building, and the walls caved in on themselves, crushing everything in the church, including me. Then everything went black.

I woke up to the sight of my sobbing parents, and a sleep-deprived police officer. The doctor told me that I sniffed a bit too much cocaine, and that my hallucinations intensified until my brain short-circuited into unconsciousness. Nonetheless, I recounted my fascinating story to them. They told me it wasn’t real. That none of it actually happened.
The next day, I had a meeting with a psychiatrist in the hospital, by the name of Mrs. Woodcock. I had the burning urge to understand what my hallucinations were.

Despite the vulgarity of my actions, I was quite the scholar, having read Sigmund Freud’s “The Interpretation of Dreams” cover to cover, and anything that could shed light on my subconscious thoughts fascinated me. I told her about the squirrels.

“…so after they were done, the male squirrel scurried away.”

“Interesting…so I’m guessing you’ve lost your virginity, Charles?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like squirrels?”

“Uh, no, not particularly,” I answered.

“Do you like watching National Geographic?”

“Actually, yes, yes I do. Nature’s always interesting.” At this point I began to wonder where this conversation was headed.

“Do you feel arousal when they show footage of animals mating?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?” I stammered.

“Well, if you want a thorough evaluation of your subconsciousness, we must be quite frank. Quite. Frank.” With this, she angled her head downwards but kept eye contact with me, as to stare me down with a gaze uninterrupted by the lenses of her glasses. So I had to fire back.

“May I ask a question?” I didn’t wait for her to answer. “I’m approximating on the time interval, but is your monthly dyeing of your hair representative of your insecurity about your age? I’ve noticed when you get wide-eyed there are no wrinkles to be found on your forehead, which suggests a hefty amount of botox, and a lone gray hair sticking out of your neat little bun.” I felt pretty good about myself after I said this.

“Well, would you look at that? Our session has ended. Goodbye.”

“Do you hand out lollipops after sessions? I like lollipops. Sometimes I like to put it all in my mouth at once, although the little paper stick that holds the candy tastes a bit bland.”

“Something is wrong with you. I suggest you go get some fresh air.”

“Will you go outside with me? I need someone to keep me company, and I’ve always liked older women. Also, do you like the last name that came with your husband?”

“First of all, I refuse to dignify that last question with an answer, and older? Is that what I am to you? Just get out. Please. Do humanity a favor and get out.” I could have countered this rather quickly, but instead, I let out some gas, smiled as I saw her face contort, and left.

After this episode, exhaustion overwhelmed me. Ever since I woke up in my hospital bed, I did not have more than fifteen minutes to myself. Police asked me questions, my mother cried for me, my father told me how stupid I am more times than I could count, and my fiancé constantly told me that she still loved me. So, I decided to take Mrs. Woodcock’s advice step outside.

It was incredibly refreshing. The pine trees smelled crisp, and sharp. The sun greeted me from time to time, but the clouds would always interrupt our exchange. I never liked wind, but whatever forlorn secrets it whispered in my ear today, I liked it - even if I couldn’t understand it. I saw the biggest acorn I’ve ever seen on the side of the street, so I picked it up and put it safely in my pocket, but I felt something else with my hand.

It seemed delicate, so I picked it out slowly. I wondered, why did I have a stupid marigold in my pocket?