When the movie of my life plays before my eyes, a recap of however many years I’ve collected, when I’m clinging onto the skin of it by a thinning thread and the faint music hums in that near-death glimmer of a blinding light, I wonder what I’ll see. The other night I wept over the idea, living tears burning my body, one day gone, this temporary vessel. What will be my final vision, passing from this world to whatever cryptic life (or lack thereof) exists apart from this one? Who will be waiting for me at the finish line, holding a poster? What will it say?

I’ve been too many people for too many people. I’ve played hero and villain and wounded thing crouching in the corner of a bad man’s bedroom. I’ve played the other woman and your only woman and the shivering woman, dipping her toe into the frigid waters of an unknown river, half-alive and tempted to drown. 

Maybe, in that long-awaited slideshow of memory, I’ll greet every great love of my life again, every pair of eyes I’ve adored, lingering for a brief moment just to warm myself by those familiar fires. I’m a lucky one. I’ve been seen by so many.

I’ll watch myself break and bloom all over again. There’s no use crying now. 

When I reach God, in all of his unfathomable might, he’ll smile and ask me, “How did you like your life?” and I’ll look down and whisper, “Which one?”

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