The dead don’t know that they’re dead. You’re dead. You’re dead now. Wake up. You’re dead. The living ring the bells. It’s a gentle, far off sound. Wake up. You’re dead.
You slip through the ice and take your two younger siblings with you. You fumble in the cold, dark water, bring them up one by one. Running home across the frozen lake, all of you wet, a kid under each arm, each of you much too cold, your clothes heavy with winter lake water. Your mother kisses you. She’s warm and soft. She says, “I didn’t know you were such a good swimmer.” You are only ten years old.
When I was eight, my mother was in the kitchen making dinner and I was wanting something, I don’t remember what, but I was frustrated and angry. I threatened to kill myself. She laughed. Which made me even more angry. I said, “I will. I’ll do it.” I took the butcher knife from the wood block and pointed it at my chest. She was at the stove. She turned. One hand on the counter, the other on her hip. “Go on.”
You are older than I am. You were graduating college when I was being born. While my mother was anesthetized, I was cut from her body.
You were lost in the jumble of siblings.
I was just lost.
I don’t know how many times I ran away from home. But my mother would often help me pack my bag. I remember one time, I left in the darkness, I walked down the driveway and into the night. I usually just stood at the door being held open for me. I’d turn back, go up the stairs, embarrassed, and get into bed and cry. But this time I went all the way out. I walked across the bridge and then down and along the other side of the lake. I stopped near the old rotting row boat. The moon was out but I couldn’t see much. I heard the ducks swimming in the water. It was a soft sound. Soft gliding strokes. Water dripping from their wings. I remember hearing my sisters calling for me. I was sitting with my knees against my chest. My arms wrapped around tight. Hunkering down. I wanted to stay out all night.
Your mother is dying. You want to know how to say goodbye to her, a mother you do not love. I want to know why you do not love a mother who praised you for saving the life of the children you almost killed. How do you not love her? How?
It is said that if you wake up seven times in your dreams, you will have the ability to wake up in your death. I’ve woken in my dreams five times. Five dreams of awareness. Five times I was wide and knowing. All of me awake and aware at the same time.
If I die tomorrow, please, ring the bells for me. Don’t let me get lost again. Tell me that I’m dead. Love me enough to remind me. You’re dead, Nicki, wake up, you’re dead.
