They are reading about it now, in the news, if they read such things, or on their friends’ Facebook feeds, more likely: Joyce Sherman, dead at thirty-one.
“So young,” they’re murmuring. “She never got to realize her dreams.”
They’re reading cause of death: struck by lightning.
“That’s how she always said she would go.” They’re laughing, bitter. “You think she’d have been more careful."
Some of them are even privy to the exact circumstances: in the hot tub, with a bowl in one hand, and a lighter in the other.
“She died happy,” they’re comforting themselves. “Doing what she loved.”
They’re marveling over the details, how the lighter exploded in one hand, how the glass bowl melted and fused itself to the other. They’re talking about god, and God, and accidents, and Accidents. Strange coincidences and a life cut short and all the things Joyce will never do, never see.
If I could, I would tell them: I rode that lightning bolt all the way up. All the way to the top. The view is amazing.
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