I’m yet to fully understand the language of the dead, so I hardly talk to anyone. Some families have actually re-united here and they look happy. I often wonder if an unknown distant relative of mine is here too? Perhaps if I knew any of them, it’d make living here a lot easier. I mean it might make living here as a dead person a lot easier.
How else am I supposed to put it? The dead have lives too, but it’s different from the lives of the living. We walk around like the living, we talk, we laugh, we cry and we get angry too. We’re living, it’s just that we’re living dead lives. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m trying to say.
All those times I told you I was going to study, I lied. Samantha, oh Samantha, I’ll never forgive you. It was Samantha who misled me. I wish I had listened to your advice. Samantha taught me how to lie to your face. Samantha said I could use what I had to get what I wanted. Samantha made sure that we both slept our ways to top grades. Momma, it was Samantha all along; it wasn’t me.
Remember the bird that sang to you earlier today, when you came to visit me? Momma, that was me. Remember that single raindrop that fell on you when you were on your way to church, but it never rained? Momma, that was me. Remember the dry leaf that laid on your window pane? Momma, that was me. Remember the soft breeze that blew your hair? Momma, that was me.
To be continued…