I wake up to my mother sobbing at the foot of my bed. She is kneeling, and her head is bowed so I can’t see her face. Her knuckles are white as she grips the covers, now wet from her tears. My mother is the strongest person I know, and my heart aches to see her in such distress. In between her breathes, I hear her faintly whimper my name, over and over and over again.
“Mom?” I start.
She doesn’t move. Judging from her reaction, she couldn’t hear me; I can’t even tell if she knows that I am there.
“Mom!” This time, I scream.
Still nothing. My blood turns to ice and my heart starts beating faster. The once bright walls of my room turn black and start shrinking around me. I jump out of bed and run over to my mother. I try to put my hand on her shoulder to turn her around, but my hand feels nothing. She continues crying into my covers as I stand over her, her shoulders rising and falling with every breath. I try to scream, but despite my best efforts, no sound seems to come out. I climb back in bed and pull the covers over my head, praying that this was all a dream.
⥈⥈⥈⥈⥈⥈⥈⥈
I’ve been dead for three weeks now, and it hasn’t gotten any easier. My grandma always told me that parents should never have to watch their babies die, and now I understand why. In the past three weeks, I watched my parents plan my funeral, make dozens of phone calls, and agonize over my death every day. My heart hurts to see that I have caused them this much pain, and the worst part of it is that I can’t comfort them. I am so close to them, but they do not know it.
It was on the second day of my second life that I found out how I died. My parents were sitting around the kitchen table on the phone with my Nonna, the dark circles under their eyes obvious from crying. My mom broke down as soon as Nonna answered the phone, and so my dad had to talk to her. I was sitting at the table with them, screaming at them in frustration, but neither them or Nonna could hear me. I remember the beginning of the conversation, but not much after. It was a drunk driver. Coming home from my tutor I was hit at 60mph by some man who didn’t think to call a taxi to take him home. I don’t know how my parents found me, or whether I was alive when they did; I didn’t listen further. I sat there, watching my parents cry over the phone, unable to speak or hear. Not being able to do anything but watch burned a hole in my chest that I would never be able to refill.
I didn’t know what to think about my funeral. On one hand, it was pleasant to see how many people came to the ceremony, many of whom I don’t recognize. As I watched them come together to celebrate my life, it made me feel alive again. I imagine these would have been the people that would have come to my wedding, if I were still alive. On the other hand, my funeral made me even more anxious. I was scared that with my body, my memory would be buried too. Being forgotten has always been one of my greatest fears, and watching my casket lower into the ground hinted at it becoming a reality. I stayed at the funeral for as long as I could, never wanting the moment to end.
I don’t know what happens next, nobody has ever gotten a chance to write a book or a movie on this part of death. I constantly fear the possibility of being forgotten, my memory being erased from my parents’ and friends’ minds. Perhaps my conscience (or whatever form I am living in now) will fade with that memory and I will cease to exist. If I am not forgotten, I can only hope to be remembered for the happiness that I brought my family, and not the pain that my death brought them.