On the twenty-fifth of November, I died. The forty nostrums, false and deceitful, had taken my life away in a single breath. I had been loveless and lonely. Each day it rained soft storms, and each night I slept on rose-thorned pallets. Dull and emotionless on the thought of death. And so in the River Styx I threw all my hopes and dreams away, allowing them to wash up in the streams. Perhaps in another life I would have been a doctor, or a poet, or a lawyer. Perhaps, in another life. But on the twenty-fifth of November, I died.
On the twenty-sixth of November, I resurrected. Resurrected at my father’s touch, as he brushed the hair off my face, tearful and pale. Resurrected as my mother fed me soup for dinner as I lay on the hospital bed, weak and withering. Resurrected as my siblings lay sleepless, thinking if I was okay. Reviving myself was a task, picking up shattered glass with bare hands. Bloody and gore as I could only stare at them with sweat and tears.
On the twenty-seventh of November, I ascended. In the comforts of Heaven I felt what it was like to be alive. I ate bread for breakfast, and greeted my neighbor good morning. At noon I walked the dogs, and at night I indulged myself with a book. It was on that day, the twenty-seventh of November, that it dawned on me that perhaps it was time to go back to the land of the living. That there was so much more to life. Because on the twenty-fifth of November, I did not die. I had only forgotten how to live. And so I’ll learn to live again.