Page 24 of Living with Death

He wipes his mouth. “There's a difference between being alone and being lonely.”

I feel my brow furrow. “Well, I like being alone.”

“No one likes being alone. I haven't experienced what it means to be human, but there are some things I've picked up throughout my existence. That is one of them. Humans need other humans to survive.”

Okay, he's right. Sometimes being alone sucks, but people hurt you. It's easier to keep your distance.

I shrug. “Possibly.”

He watches me for a moment. “So, you choose to be alone, and you do what? Stay in this,” he looks around, “neglected home?”

I kick his foot. “Hey, don't talk about her. She's sensitive.” I take another bite, looking around my home. “She needs work. I know that, but I just haven't felt the want to do it.”

“Why is that?”

I chew, thinking about this. Why haven't I done anything with my home? Maybe because it all reminds me of my grandparents. Growing up, I spent a lot of time at this house. I used to play with an old model car my grandpop put together on this carpet. There's a lump in front of the fireplace. I used it as a speed breaker.

I'd curl up in that window seat and read for hours, smelling Gram’s cooking drift from that old stove that doesn't work half the time. Gram’s dishes are still here, the iron skillet she used to make her special biscuits and her favorite toast pan. She'd always say to Grandpops,“You cook anything other than toast in this pan, I'll kick you in the shins.”

He'd respond,“Hush, woman. I'm not going to mess with your pans.”He'd wink at me.

I'm not a big fan of change. I hold on to things longer than I should, but this house is the only place I can be myself. My grandparents were golden. They loved one another so much, and they loved me. They never said it, but it was how they let me be. I've always thought changing this house would wipe away all those memories. But my eyes are opening. My thoughts are changing.

“Just haven't.”

He nods, but his expression says he doesn't believe me.

“How much...time do I have?”

He wipes his hands.

I've only known him briefly, but he's changing my perspective. Maybe it's not even him, though, but the experience I've gone through. I died. That can change a person's outlook on life.

“There's no need to be troubled about your death if that's what you're referring to.”

“How long do you intend to be here?”

“I haven't decided.”

I lick my bottom lip, chewing on a piece of loose skin. “I want to make a bucket list.”

“A bucket list?”

“It's an expression. You write down the things you'd like to do before you, well, kick the bucket.”

“And kick the bucket refers to dying?”

I smile. “Yes.”

He nods. “I like that.”

He's never tried pizza before. I can't imagine what else he hasn't done.

“You should write a list, too. Things you'd like to do before you return to…” I wave my hand. “Wherever.”

He agrees. “And we can do these things together.”

“If that's what you want.”

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