5 a.m. I am sitting across the TV watching a show I barely understand. A letter envelope comes in my mailbox. The sender’s name is blank but the name is my name and the address is my home. I put the TV in mute, anticipating the message of the anonymous sender. I turn the lights on and prepare to read.
The crumple of the envelope as I open it makes a sharp contrast to the silence of my room. My room’s lights stand out in the sea of darkness outside.
The letter says that today is my last day on earth for tonight when I sleep, tomorrow I will wake up no more. Suddenly, my life flashes in front of me.
The smile on my parents’ lips when I was born. My first day in prep school. What’s the name of that boy again who stepped on my foot and made me cry?
I see myself curled up in bed, crying, the first time someone broke my heart.
I see myself waking up at 3 a.m. to answer the call of a friend who got pregnant out of wedlock. That was ten years ago.
I remember that party with friends that was filled with laughter and that birthday celebration with my family.
The end. My failures, my success, my unfulfilled dreams are now just a speck of dust in the air. Irrelevant.
I look at the TV and turn it off. The screen turns black, all the colors reduced to a white dot at the center that in a while will disappear.
The letter is signed: God.
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