Read to the End

Take My Hand

Spirit Number: 815

Gender: Male

Age: 92 years old

Name: Clarence

"Take my hand," I say.

A tiny man named Clarence gives me the uncertain look I see every day. His eyes furrow, mouth hangs open as though he wants to say something.

"Don't try to speak yet. It takes a few minutes, but it'll come back to you."

He stares at my hand for a second, then takes it. An inaudible sigh escapes his lips as his shoulders slump down into a noticeable curve.

"It can be a bit jarring at first, but you'll get your bearings."

As we glide up through the bloated clouds, Clarence silently screams—most of them do. He clings to my hand so hard, I'm sure if I could feel physical pain, I'd be crying out in agony. But he doesn't need to—we won't fall.

A crash of thunder echoes below.

I begin reciting The Script. Word for word. It's the one aspect of my job I'm required to do exactly right or I get into trouble:

Insert spirit's mortal name (Clarence), you have just passed beyond the mortal realm. You lived a life but now it is time for your spirit and body to be separated. Do not fear! I will help you with the transition. I know you must be feeling a plethora of emotions: confusion, sadness, anger, despair, joy, peace, relief, ecstasy. Do not try to fight these emotions as they will aid you in regaining yourself. I will get you to the right place, then you will know what to do from there.

Remember to smile at the spirit.

"I-I'm d-duh-dead?" Clarence stammers.

"Yes."

This is the part I hate the most about my job! Some spirits react poorly—wailing, gnashing teeth, spitting. Others cry a bit, then accept it quietly. But the worst are the ones who seem a bit too enthusiastic. They usually give me hugs. Sometimes kisses.

It's just too much.

I brace for Clarence's reaction. He looks at me, nods slightly, and says, "I hope M-MM-Myra is okay. I didn't want to leave h-her alone."

There's no script for this, but I've dealt with this reaction at least 730 times, so I'm prepared.

"Death is hard on everyone. There's no doubt she will mourn you. She will probably feel lonely, at least for a while, but you had a good life together. Knowing you're in a better place will give her strength to keep going."

I don't actually know if this is true. I don't know Clarence. Or Myra. I don't know whether they spent 60 blissful years together or 25 tumultuous ones, but I've found that spirits of good people will recognize things will be okay, and the not-so-good ones, well, I'm not with them long enough to care about how they feel.

Clarence hangs his head down. He's feeling the sadness of separation. But, soon enough, he stares up at me and beams. A miniscule twinkle passes over his eyes. A literal wave of peace seeps into me.

Now I know—Clarence is one of the good ones.

We glide to our destination. In front of us are two doors. A glowing door made of pure gold and magnificent energy, and a rusty metal slab which appears to be from an old naval ship.

Clarence looks at me expectantly. "Now what?"

I hold out both arms, one pointing at each door. "You choose."