Elevation

by Stephen King

Hands on a clock, numbers on a bathroom scale, weren’t they only ways of trying to measure invisible forces that had visible effects? A feeble effort to corral some greater reality beyond what mere humans thought of as reality?

Scott had almost laughed, which would have been bad—even Trumpian—diplomacy.

life is what we make it and acceptance is the key to all our affairs.”

“It’s not about winning, believe me.” As it came out of his mouth, Scott remembered a college teacher once remarking that when someone added believe me to a sentence, you should beware.

The high schoolers went in costume to the annual Halloween dance in the gym, for which a local garage band, Big Top, renamed themselves Pennywise and the Clowns.

He was afraid—it would have been foolish not to be—but he was also curious. And something else. Happy? Was that it? Yes. Probably crazy, but definitely yes. Certainly he felt singled out somehow. Doctor Bob might think that was crazy, but Scott thought it was sane. Why feel bad about what you couldn’t change? Why not embrace it?

Not a wind, not even a high, exactly, but an elevation. A sense that you had gone beyond yourself and could go farther still.

As she did, more thunder banged overhead—God’s starter pistol—and

Everything leads to this, he thought. To this elevation. If it’s how dying feels, everyone should be glad to go.

Lightning went with thunder like peanut butter went with jelly.

You’ve been good friends to me.” “There’s no compliment more sincere than that,”

the only thing harder than saying goodbye to yourself, a pound at a time, was saying goodbye to your friends.

She won’t tell you this, but I will: you knocked the chip off her shoulder. It was a big chip, and now she can walk straight again. She’s always been a prickly pear, and I don’t expect that to change, but she’s open now. She sees more, hears more, can be more. You made that possible. You picked her up when she fell.

Gravity is the anchor that pulls us down into our graves. There would be no grave for this man, and no more gravity, either. He had been given a special dispensation.

the air was as sweet and crisp as the first bite of a fall apple.

To match the trillion pebbles, just as mysterious, that we walk over every day, he thought. Mystery above, mystery below. Weight, mass, reality: mystery all around.

Mystery, mystery, mystery.

Everyone should have this, he thought, and perhaps, at the end, everyone does. Perhaps in their time of dying, everyone rises.