A Text Message to Mom

I fumble with the phone and lose my grip on the steering wheel as I send a text message to mom. 

Oh no! I jam on the brakes and spin out of control as my car skids off the road with a screech. I slam into a tree and everything goes black. 

When I come to, the acrid smell of deployed airbags and burnt rubber assaults my nose. The front end of the car is a crumpled mess. I’m sure it’s totalled. At least I’m alive.

I unbuckle the belt and look at my torso. There’s nothing sticking out of me, so I wasn’t impaled on anything. That’s good. I move my legs and arms, and feel my chest, there’s no broken bones or cracked ribs. No abrasions, cuts, or blood; no injuries of any kind, I can see. Surely a miracle!

I don’t know how long I was out, but it’s dark now. My phone’s on the floor smashed, so I can’t tell the time or call for help. I’ll need to walk into town. I think it’s about a mile away.

I walk for about twenty minutes and reach the Baptist church on the outskirts. Something’s going on tonight, and the parking lot is filled with cars.

Probably the mid-week service. Or Sunday night service. Not really sure what day it is, now that I think about it. I feel a bit disoriented.  

I enter quietly through the door and stand in the back. The sanctuary is packed, and I see family members and friends in the pews. My sister is at the podium crying, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She is talking about me–telling a story about when we were kids.

She says she loves me, and will miss me, and will see me again. I wave my arms. Hey sis, you don’t have to wait. I’m standing right here, in plain sight!

I guess she doesn’t see me.

She sits on the front pew; my mother takes her place at the podium. She’s crying too. I wave, but she doesn’t see me either. Why is she ignoring me? 

And why is she crying?

I’m confused.

There’s a casket on the floor in front of the podium where my mom is speaking. There are flowers and framed photos of me. Wait, what?

I look down at myself and see the chilling truth. I’m invisible. They can’t see me!  I see my body in the casket—lifeless, still, deceased. But if I didn’t survive that accident, then‌…?

I know the answer before I finish the question. I’m a ghost, or whatever entity people become when they die. A hapless spirit forever separated from the life I knew before I crashed into that tree.

I can’t stay here. This memorial service–this celebration of my life–may be  about me, but it’s not for me. It is for the living, not the dead.

I blow a kiss to mom. She trembles as it brushes her cheek like the caress of a butterfly’s wing. I love you, mom. I’m sorry for causing such grief and pain. I will see you again some day.

I wipe my eyes, turn around, and walk out the door to face the unknown.