[I heard a Fly buzz—when I died

The Stillness in the Room

Was like the Stillness in the Air—

Between the Heavens of Storm]

 Dear Diary,

My name is Rose and I am twenty-five years old. I graduated Suma Cum Laude from Vassar College in 2010. Back then, I was engaged to the man of my dreams, had a paid internship lined up at The Knot’s main offices in midtown Manhattan, and was on my way to spending the prime of my life in the big city. Everything was ahead of me and everything was behind me. I was living in giddy anticipation of what was to come and I couldn’t wait to see life through to the bitter end. I just didn’t know the end would come so soon.

[The Eyes around—had wrung them dry—

And Breaths were gathering firm

For that last Onset—when the King

Be witnessed—in the Room—]

Dear Diary,

Within our first three months in the city, my fiancé and I called it quits. I realize now that I was young and foolish and what we had was a poor stand in for actual love. It is my hope that I will be able to find real, true, everlasting love in this life or the next. In the years that followed, I lived the life of a single twenty-something in the city. I had a brilliant group of friends with whom I spent every waking moment. I dated. I slept around. I was happy to be unattached and exploring the diverse pool of men around me. They were fascinating, infuriating, and sometimes nauseating. I took something away from my experiences with each of them and grew into a resilient young woman who showed the world that she wasn’t someone to fuck with. That is until The Thing That Changed It All came about.

 [I willed my Keepsakes—Signed away

What portion of me be

Assignable—and then it was

There interposed a Fly]

Dear Diary,

The summer of 2013 was scorching hot. The sun sizzled your skin off and dangerous waves of heat rose from the pavement. The thousands of windows on the tall city buildings reflected and magnified that heat and the streets around my apartment emptied. Every day, there were reports of people suffering from heat strokes, sometimes dying. Those who chose to venture outside despite the temperature did so at risk of getting blistering sunburns on any skin that happened to be exposed, which, in that heat, was most of it. ConEd’s systems were working double-triple-quadruple overtime and couldn’t sustain the energy needed to power the millions of air conditioning units that tried to put a dent in the ungodly hot apartments. It was like Hell on Earth and all we could do was stay still. Only I couldn’t. I’ve never been able to, until now. That was meant for laughs because The Thing That Changed It All was started by my movement and has since ceased my movement. My neighborhood was experiencing a high volume of rolling blackouts. We were advised to be cautious on the streets because the darkness that fell upon us seemed so absolute compared to the light pollution we were used to. I couldn’t stay still. I needed to walk. I told my roommate that I was going out to get some cold beers for us and she bid me adieu. I went outside and jogged across the street, not bothering to look because everything was so quiet. I should have looked. A black Mustang came screaming out of the darkness and hit me head on. My body felt like it exploded on the windshield and was thrown over the top of the car. I hit the ground hard on my back, fracturing my spine in just the right way that would render me a quadriplegic for the rest of my life. I hit my head just hard enough that I had to be put on life support with a 24 hour monitor. That’s where I am now, Diary, I think.

 [With Blue—uncertain—stumbling Buzz—

Between the light—and me—

And the Windows failed—and then

I could not see to see—]

Dear Diary,

I am in the hospital bed and I am not in the hospital bed. I am floating around the room’s fluorescent and unflattering lights, looking down at my mother clutching my hand. No, I am flying. And I am not looking with two eyes, but through hundreds of tiny prisms. They are fracturing my sight, but I can still see my father putting his arm around her while the doctor talks to them. She burrows her head into his chest and he buries his face in her hair—her hair that always smells of gardenias and sunshine. I fly down to them. I need to show them that I have become an angel. Only I’m not an angel. I see myself in the mirror and I hear the buzzing I make with each movement. I thought I heard them say they were going to cut the life support. I was ready. I was so ready to go to the light and be able to move freely again. But there was a fly in the way of my peace.

Dear Diary,

My name is Rose and I was twenty-five years old when I died. I’d like to tell you that the afterlife is the golden city of Heaven, filled with puffy white clouds and softness and light, but I haven’t made it there yet. And maybe I never will. When I died, I wished for unrestricted movement and unrelenting love and that was a mistake. God has played a joke on me. He turned me into a fly, which yes, grants my wish for movement and freedom, but that’s not what I wanted and He knew it. I believe I am to live out my days, floating on the edge of eternity and salvation in this hospital ward, watching souls more worthy than mine pass into the Beyond, whatever that might be.

*Bracketed poem by Emily Dickinson