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juxtaposePurgatory is a gravelly road.
Some are told it’s a purifying flame, others that it’s where the ghosts of their unrested loved ones reside. Dante called it a tall mountain. But in reality, it is a very long, very lonely road.
You might say it’s nothing, that walking is a simple task compared to what you’ve got to do in life to end up doing it. But here’s the tricky bit: you don’t ever stop walking. Not until the folks Upstairs think you’re ready to move on (if ever).
And here’s what else: there is no destination. Each step you take brings you further away and closer still to Nothing. Nothing, until you’re Called.
I do not know what day it is, or how long I’ve been Here. Time is different in this place. I think it may not exist at all, or if it does, it moves like tiny ants across a green field (slowly, even as your legs move faster than wildfire).
A breeze grazes my shoulder, and Clare is beside me. Clare died on the 15th of August in a year she can no longer remember, and has eyes the color of water when it reflects the moon. Clare is the reason I do not walk alone.
(I don’t think she belongs here.)
She syncs her steps with my rhythmic, long strides. In my mind I hear her voice, quiet with turned-up syllables: Hello. Where are you headed?
It’s a joke we have. We joke in Purgatory. Sometimes. Oh, you know. Anywhere.
The tease of a smile flits across her lips as Clare maneuvers her way around a man curled up on the pavement below us. He will not stay there long. He’s not allowed. The pull of the Road will compel his feet to move again. It always does.
The scuffing sounds of our feet, and those of the people behind and in front of us, have a beat to them that charges through my head like a drum in the corners of my mind. I can’t remember silence. There is no silence Here. Just never-ending shuffling.
Clare takes my hand. I don’t recall what affection is supposed to be like, but I think I remember warmth. Clare’s hand is not warm. But neither is mine. I squeeze it anyway, though neither of us have had true hands to touch for a very long time.
I hear, What do you think Heaven is like?, and it’s a question she asks me frequently of which I have no answer. So each time she asks, I change my response.
Like constant warmth, and I think of our entwined fingers and how they might feel different Up There.
She seems satisfied with this. We swing our arms to and fro to the beat of our shuffle as the unforgiving sun beats down heavy on our backs. The sun doesn’t go away Here, doesn’t leave a trail for the moon to follow in the night. I don’t remember much of night, besides a distant fragment of that pale moon over the bay I see in Clare’s eyes.
Tell me what you remember, I say to her, of being human.
She’s told me dozens of times before, but I like to hear it anyway. Clare looks at me, tilting her head thoughtfully. Melodic, here it comes:
I remember sunshine that didn’t hurt. I remember walking to where you want to go, or running into fields of grass or into someone’s arms. I remember smiling, and making others smile. And then, something new: I remember . . . I remember loving others, the kind of love that made my heart full. The kind where the only thing that mattered was making someone happy, even just for a moment.
This throws me. I wrack my brain, trying to understand. Clare’s eyes are wide now, wide with a realization I grasp at desperately to no avail.
I look up at the bloody sky and reply, Love. But the word is tangled in my thoughts.
Love, she says, We are walking for love. To learn to love, and to be loved again.
And then It happens.
The Light comes, streaking through the perpetually orange sky and cascading onto Clare like a waterfall.
The others around me stop to watch, knowing full well they’ll need to move again soon. But when someone has been Called, it’s worth the pause.
Clare has been Called, I realize. Whispers fill the air, sweetly soft and fluttering around Clare like a blanket of song. I’m not allowed to know of what they speak. But the look of surprise on Clare’s face, melting into a look of sheer peace, gives me most of what I need to know.
And then she is moving.
(Up, up, up, letting go of my hand. I find myself reaching up to her, as if I alone have strength enough to tether her here despite the forces of angels.)
I think I hear my name in her crystal voice, and the last of her I see are those blue moon eyes.
She is gone. The tread begins again. I remain still for a small moment, however, despite the pull to keep moving.
I understand, now. I would listen to Clare’s recollections because I had none of my own. I cannot remember. This is all I know.
Clare remembered the Goodness that I couldn’t. The humanity I can’t fathom.
Goodbye, Clare, are the words in my head, but they can’t reach her where she’s gone.
Purgatory is a gravelly road.
I keep walking, my steps seeming to echo louder than before.
Some are told it’s a purifying flame, others that it’s where the ghosts of their unrested loved ones reside. Dante called it a tall mountain. But in reality, it is a very long, very lonely road.
You might say it’s nothing, that walking is a simple task compared to what you’ve got to do in life to end up doing it. But here’s the tricky bit: you don’t ever stop walking. Not until the folks Upstairs think you’re ready to move on (if ever).
And here’s what else: there is no destination. Each step you take brings you further away and closer still to Nothing. Nothing, until you’re Called.
I do not know what day it is, or how long I’ve been Here. Time is different in this place. I think it may not exist at all, or if it does, it moves like tiny ants across a green field (slowly, even as your legs move faster than wildfire).
A breeze grazes my shoulder, and Clare is beside me. Clare died on the 15th of August in a year she can no longer remember, and has eyes the color of water when it reflects the moon. Clare is the reason I do not walk alone.
(I don’t think she belongs here.)
She syncs her steps with my rhythmic, long strides. In my mind I hear her voice, quiet with turned-up syllables: Hello. Where are you headed?
It’s a joke we have. We joke in Purgatory. Sometimes. Oh, you know. Anywhere.
The tease of a smile flits across her lips as Clare maneuvers her way around a man curled up on the pavement below us. He will not stay there long. He’s not allowed. The pull of the Road will compel his feet to move again. It always does.
The scuffing sounds of our feet, and those of the people behind and in front of us, have a beat to them that charges through my head like a drum in the corners of my mind. I can’t remember silence. There is no silence Here. Just never-ending shuffling.
Clare takes my hand. I don’t recall what affection is supposed to be like, but I think I remember warmth. Clare’s hand is not warm. But neither is mine. I squeeze it anyway, though neither of us have had true hands to touch for a very long time.
I hear, What do you think Heaven is like?, and it’s a question she asks me frequently of which I have no answer. So each time she asks, I change my response.
Like constant warmth, and I think of our entwined fingers and how they might feel different Up There.
She seems satisfied with this. We swing our arms to and fro to the beat of our shuffle as the unforgiving sun beats down heavy on our backs. The sun doesn’t go away Here, doesn’t leave a trail for the moon to follow in the night. I don’t remember much of night, besides a distant fragment of that pale moon over the bay I see in Clare’s eyes.
Tell me what you remember, I say to her, of being human.
She’s told me dozens of times before, but I like to hear it anyway. Clare looks at me, tilting her head thoughtfully. Melodic, here it comes:
I remember sunshine that didn’t hurt. I remember walking to where you want to go, or running into fields of grass or into someone’s arms. I remember smiling, and making others smile. And then, something new: I remember . . . I remember loving others, the kind of love that made my heart full. The kind where the only thing that mattered was making someone happy, even just for a moment.
This throws me. I wrack my brain, trying to understand. Clare’s eyes are wide now, wide with a realization I grasp at desperately to no avail.
I look up at the bloody sky and reply, Love. But the word is tangled in my thoughts.
Love, she says, We are walking for love. To learn to love, and to be loved again.
And then It happens.
The Light comes, streaking through the perpetually orange sky and cascading onto Clare like a waterfall.
The others around me stop to watch, knowing full well they’ll need to move again soon. But when someone has been Called, it’s worth the pause.
Clare has been Called, I realize. Whispers fill the air, sweetly soft and fluttering around Clare like a blanket of song. I’m not allowed to know of what they speak. But the look of surprise on Clare’s face, melting into a look of sheer peace, gives me most of what I need to know.
And then she is moving.
(Up, up, up, letting go of my hand. I find myself reaching up to her, as if I alone have strength enough to tether her here despite the forces of angels.)
I think I hear my name in her crystal voice, and the last of her I see are those blue moon eyes.
She is gone. The tread begins again. I remain still for a small moment, however, despite the pull to keep moving.
I understand, now. I would listen to Clare’s recollections because I had none of my own. I cannot remember. This is all I know.
Clare remembered the Goodness that I couldn’t. The humanity I can’t fathom.
Goodbye, Clare, are the words in my head, but they can’t reach her where she’s gone.
Purgatory is a gravelly road.
I keep walking, my steps seeming to echo louder than before.
