Coffee

     I assume death feels something like an amalgamation of all the feelings I have while sharing a drink with close friends or coffee with people I love. I’ve heard someone hypothesize that it’ll be akin to the experience of being anxious about traveling somewhere new, and then realizing there was nothing to be afraid of the whole time. I’ve also heard it’ll feel like coming home.

     Oprah recently sat down with a man who was released from prison after unjustly spending thirty years on death row. He said to this day he doesn’t use an umbrella when it rains outside, because he loves the novelty of feeling raindrops on his skin. And I imagine it feels something like that, too.

     Sipping slowly on a mug of hot, black coffee, looking over at someone I love and saying, “How are you?” That’s what I hope it’s like.