I have no idea if there is life after death. Sometimes I want to say yes, but other times that just seems like wishful thinking. I wonder if my true hang up is that the concept of infinity freaks me out. When I think about what infinity is it makes me uneasy and uncertain and blows my mind in sometimes an uncomfortable way and sometimes in an awe inspiring way.
The awe moments come when I'm on the "this afterlife thing makes no sense but I will embrace it because surely my little brain can't comprehend it all" moments.
As interesting as that all is, I'm not really thinking about that kind of life after death tonight. I'm thinking about regular boring life and exciting life and hard life and well, life after someone dies.
Life after death.
We keep living.
I had to look up how long it had been since two friends died. Eight years. Eight years of me living, of the community we belong to still gathering. Eight years of missed conversations.
Since it has been eight years it seems like something I shouldn't think about very much. And I don't. But I do, and I still hurt. Not in the raw way anymore. Just in the scabby way. Just in the way that I wish instead of my little girl having Dinah as a middle name she would be able to play with Dinah's little one, that never existed, but may have if there was time.
There is life after death.
And a scar.