A Whisp of Green SteamJun 25 '02 Write an essay on this topic.The Bottom Line It isn't easy being green! Similarities to anything living or dead are purely coincidental. I am up here, floating around in the breeze. I realize that I am dead, and I am sad about that, for even though I am old, I love life. Yes, I am dead. I remember the tires screaming, and the glass breaking when I crashed through the guard rail. I remember the headlights of a truck on the wrong side of the road. I remember the car rolling, and I was being held back by its seat belt. Why wasn’t the air bag working? It finally came bounding out when the car crashed into the big tree, and one of the branches came through the window. That’s the last thing I remember, for it was the air bag that broke my neck. People are running to the car now. The wheels are still turning and a bit of smoke is rising. They are pulling someone out. It is me, and a sorry sight I am. There is no way I could have survived that crash. I don’t understand. How can I see this? I no longer have eyes. How can I be thinking? My brain is down there seeping out of my cracked skull. I seem to be nothing but a whisp of green illuminated steam. So now what happens – do I just drift away and become part of a cloud? As I drift higher, I notice other green whisps of steam, some brighter then others. A number of people must also have died tonight. We are being pulled along as though by a magnet. I wonder about the other whisps. Are they as curious as I am? I don’t think I am going to hell. If you were going to burn in torment for eternity, you would need a body, wouldn’t you? We are moving through a cloudy arch, and around each of our green steam whisps appears the outline of a body, transparent and cloudy. My body bears the outline of a young woman, high of breast, and slim of thigh, buttocks and waistline. No details of the bodies can be seen. Something invisible is guiding me to a place formed from clouds I think, and is insisting that I sit as I did when I was alive. If I still had a head, I would say the voice is in my brain – but it isn’t a voice either. It isn’t like a thought. It is more like an impression being stamped onto the inner core of me. If I can put it in words so that someday I will pass it on, perhaps through dreams, this is what I am getting. “You are not in what you think of as Heaven –nor are you in the Underworld. Very few humans are perfect enough to enter Heaven. Nor are you evil enough to endure the torments of Hell. So, as some religions teach, you will be subjected to many lives before you can be judged. This method does not apply to all. It applies only to those who are judged to need it. The first life you will live will be that of an insect. Which insect will be determined by non-family members who have gone before you. The choice will be made either by a friend or ar least by someone who knows you well. The choices are between who loves you versus one who hates you. The one whose emotions are most profound will choose your insect life. In this case the hate emotion is stronger then the love emotion. Step forward and choose.” A figure appears before me, her eyes as filled with hate even as they were when she was alive. “That’s not fair,” I cry, forgetting I have no voice. “That is my mother in law. You said, no family.” “You are not my family. You just married my youngest son. I hate you. I hate less you then my other two daughters in law, but I hate you. None of you are my family”, she spat. Her eyes gleam with malice. “You will be one of those wee little black ants that you have been plagued with. You will be a black insignificant ant, no bigger than the exclamation point on your computer.” I try to protest, but there is nothing to protest to. I am gone again – and I feel part of the green steam that is me, being siphoned away. A very tiny bit – one no bigger then the dot over an I. Indeed it doesn’t even dim the light of my steam. I am an ant. I am a very tiny black ant. I am not even a scout ant, but a worker. I do not think. I have but one instinct, which I follow blindly. I must follow the path of the scout who finds food, and return with food to the anthill. I must do this ceaselessly. That is the me that is an ant. The green flicker that is the rest of me, simply watches the ant who I name Mini- me. I am unable to warn, or advise. I watch Mini-Me walk from the ant colony, up the trail left by the scout. I see Mini-Me climb the legs of the foundation of a deck. I see her (me) walk through a tiny spot that is left unguarded by the screen door; walk into a kitchen and up a white counter. I am startled. The counter is in my house. I have been battling those ants for weeks. First I tried ant-catchers and spray – which didn’t work. I finally had devised a scheme of my own which seemed to keep them away. I took a Bounty paper towel, and folded it into a hand-sized rectangle. Then I had turned on the tap to scalding, and soaked half the towel. Holding it by the dry side, I scooped up multitudes at a time as the ants swarmed over a spot of jelly, or a drop of gravy from the dog food can. I was cruel. I usually managed to get the Scout, who was the biggest. Then I would toss the towel in the sink and let the scalding water wash all of the specks that were ants down the drain. I was merciless. I got every one that I saw. The counters would be free of ants for a day or two, or until they found another route. I know what the fate is for Mini-Me, the ant. I see the poor mindless me, who doesn’t know what is happening or why. I see my daughter coming with the hot paper towel. Something of the flicker of me that isn’t an ant must be registering, for Mini-me tries for escape under the cookie jar. I see the ants being wiped away from the counter, and curling up. Some have regained their footing and are trying to get away, but there is no escape. They are in the sink and the scalding water is taking their remains down the drain. The little ant that I call Mini-Me is trying to leave the cookie jar. Bad move. My daughter sees it, and snatches up the towel. Pain – searing burning pain – I am curling- no legs showing- I am in the sink – pain – more pain – ebbing now – blackness – blackness. Mini-me is gone. although the horror is still with the me who is left. I hear the doorbell ringing. My daughter is answering the door. I hear voices. Two policemen are telling my child about me. My daughter is in shock. She had been sleeping before, and had just awakened a half hour ago for she works nights. I hope she remembers I was in her dream, and knows that I love her. Some day, perhaps, she will remember. Once again, I am floating. Again I pass through the portal. Another life lies before me. It will be either a bird, or a wild animal, or a sea creature. I hope this pick will be by someone who loves me. By Virginia Kiraly  |
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