A journal of narrative writing.

I. The young professor, whose blazer fits him like a bathrobe, asks: How old are you in the afterlife? Last week my roommate flushed her prescriptions down the toilet, and today she accused me of stealing her bible. You don't even own a bible, I said. Well, not anymore, she said. She was tearing our room apart. I mean this literally. She was clawing at our walls. The young professor asks: When the body stops living, how old is the soul? I am taking this class for you. In the afterlife I want to be your age. II. My roommate disappears. No one sees her for days. The young professor says, Imagine you're walking through the woods and you come across a severed head. He waits for raised hands. Will we be tested on this, someone asks. My roommate reappears and sleeps. It's like she's dead. That's how still she lies there, and for how long. You're too young, you said. I said No, I am old. When my grandfather dies I pocket the remains of his prescriptions in their plastic orange canisters. There isn't a cure, only this softening of the blow. I'm thinking if these pills can work on dying then won't they do something for me still living.