Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

by Gabrielle Zevin

You are dead. A prompt comes up on the screen: Start game from the beginning? Yes, you think. Why not? If you play again, you might win. Suddenly, there you are, brand-new, feathers restored, bones unbroken, sanguine with fresh blood. You are flying more slowly than last time, because you don’t want to miss any of it. The cows. The lavender. The woman humming Beethoven. The distant bees. The sad-faced man and the couple in the pond. The beat of your heart before you go onstage. The feel of a lace sleeve against your skin. Your mother singing Beatles songs to you, trying to sound like she’s from Liverpool. The first playthrough of Ichigo. The rooftop on Abbot Kinney. The taste of Sadie mixed with Hefeweizen beer. Sam’s round head in your hands. A thousand paper cranes. Yellow-tinted sunglasses. A perfect peach. This world, you think. You are flying over the strawberry field, but you know it’s a trap. This time, you keep flying.