I Died Today

May I rest in peace.

I am Joyce.

I am eighteen.

I died today.

My life unfolds right before me,

scene after scene,

like a nonstop movie marathon.

From the very second I was conceived

til my raw death,

I see myself

and the people who'd been a part of my journey--

family...friends...strangers.

Everybody adored me

my family, neighborhood, town.

I was intelligent, sharp,

painfully honest,

and virtuous.

I graced the church with my presence

and impressed the heavens with my religiosity.

I was practically the kind of person

everyone dreamed to be,

a candidate for sainthood.

At a young age,

I had my own timeline of dreams:

finish college with honors,

marry a doctor,

raise five or seven kids,

be a philanthropist,

change the world.

My promising career was intricately laid out.

My monumental success

had been prophesied by everybody.

I knew death.

I knew everybody dies.

I knew it could happen to anyone

at any given time.

But I was young

and I was foolish.

I never considered it to happen to me.

Not this soon.

I can still remember that night

when death disguised itself as a beautiful dream.

I never woke up.

My parents found me lifeless that morning

--and man, did they weep.

I see them.

I see how they bleed tears.

I want to reach out to them

but that's not possible.

I am dead now...

The news of my death spreads like a wildfire

and everyone grieves for me

Some retreat in revered silence.

Some console themselves in each other's arms.

They revere my name like I'm a saint

equal to St. Therese of the Child Jesus.

And each person has a story to tell:

litany of the good acts I had done

and numerous virtues they swear I have.

I wonder if their praises

can give me access to heaven...

Now that my life has ended,

I see how each piece fit with another

like a perfect puzzle.

Seemingly insignificant things

serve their own purpose:

the delays, the unheard prayers,

the tears and the yawns.

Every flaw, every success

everything

makes up the blueprint

of who I was meant to be.

It all makes sense to me now.

I am Joyce

I am eighteen

I died today.

Author's Note

Original link: http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/arzeljoy_blu/1245691/