Everyone who knew me before 9-11 thinks I'm dead. Sometimes, I wonder if they're right. In the evening when the sun sinks pink and the katy-dids start up, I sit on my front porch and think about that mystery: If every living link to your past thinks you're dead, can you really be alive? Sometimes, after a few drinks, I start believing that maybe I'm just writing now to satisfy some Celestial Jury in whose hands my Eternal Destiny has been placed. When I was little, I saw some movie on television about people who died and spent a week in heaven waiting on their final judgement. They rode on those open-door trains like you ride on in the parking lot at Disney. You know, the ones who are driven by the perky teenagers in flip-collard Polo shirts and white tennis shoes? If one of those things pulled up right now, I couldn't claim to be all that surprised.
If I had the chance to recast the past six years, I might. But then again, I've always heard the voice of destiny pushing me just this way. Destiny speaks with a voice you can't resist, even when you realize it might need a little help to keep turning the wheels it put in motion for you.