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?

It wouldn’t be a prejudice against same-sex marriage, would it?” Scott had almost laughed, which would have been bad—even Trumpian—diplomacy.

Sometimes he thought of a saying Nora had brought home from her AA meetings: the past is history, the future’s a mystery.

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?

“Jesus shined-up Christ on a trailer hitch.

Lol

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

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

He used to say what you deserve has nothing to do with where you finish.

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

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.

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