This and Every Life

by Emmy Sanders

“Have you ever wondered what happens when we die?” Jasper’s question is so unexpected on the heels of his tale about a stray tabby cat he used to sneak scraps to when he was young that it takes me a moment to answer. “The church would have us believe Heaven or Hell.” His head shifts my way, blue eyes seemingly trying to read me. “You don’t think so?” “No,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “I do not.” “What do you believe?” I ease out a breath. “There is so much in this world that is unknown to me. Places I will never see. Concepts I will never understand. But I cannot bring myself to believe there’s one governing body who decides the fate of all mortal men on this earth. The will of man is great. And no matter the circumstances under which we are born and die, if I didn’t believe us capable of commandeering our own fate, I would have nothing to fight for.”

Should knowledge and wealth not be shared equally? What benefit is it to have extra food on the table when others have not enough to get by? Should not all men and women learn the alphabet? Are we not stronger if we gain wisdom from all?

“There’s a principle by which he’s most known. ‘I think, therefore I am.’” Charlie watches me curiously, so I go on. “I know I exist because I think. Because I think, I exist. I have no real proof that anything else is real, but I know my conscious thoughts to be. Correct?” He nods slowly. “The same is true for you,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Which brings me to two conclusions I came to earlier that are, in fact, one and the same. Either you think you are a man, therefore you are one. Or my own brain has produced all of this, in which case I am to decide what’s real. And you’re real to me, Charlie.” His chin wobbles. “So you accept me? As I am?” “Exactly as you are.” “Arthur.” My name on his lips is the same as it’s ever been. Lovely and warm. “I thought you were a mathematician. Not a philosopher.” I expel a soft laugh. “Scientific thought belongs to us all, my dear.”

But I’ve never been devout, and my conviction in my love far outweighs the teachings of faith.

“Do you know how far the human eye can see?” I shake my head. “I do not.” “Less than three miles on a clear day.” He sets the journal on his lap, running his fingers over it once more before picking up the textbooks one at a time, examining each. “Three miles. That’s the distance from our eye to the horizon when on flat ground. Do you know how far light travels in a single second?” “186,000 miles?” I guess. He nods, drawing in a breath through his nose. “186 thousand. The world we live in is so much more vast than we can see. Imagine what’s out there, Arthur. In a time and place far from now.”

It’s asinine, is it not? To be who we are simply because it’s what someone else told us to be?