I admit to being completely taken off guard when it happened. In my defense, I’m not entirely certain that any human is totally prepared for it either.

Funny that. We spend our entire existence in preparation for this one final feat. The one moment that transcends time, station and place, uniting us in celebration—the final declaration of our common humanity. Slave and master, serf and emperor, king, subject, Wall Street prep and child of the third world are finally made equal. Some are glorified by man, yet, in this instant all are humbled and made to bow to the very weakness of mankind—death.

For we are equal in this last, glorious action if in nothing else.

Death. It was one of the most unexpected things that ever happened to me. In fact, my life had really just started to get interesting. My career and marriage were stable, and my children had finally achieved some form independence, both financial and emotional. The youngest of the lot had joined his brother and sister in a parent’s worse nightmare—university. Not that I begrudged my children the opportunity that I had so eagerly taken advantage of myself, but alas, I had taken too much advantage of the experience (not the academic aspect, I assure you) and I hoped that my children had the intelligence not to follow in their parents’ footsteps.

So off went my youngest, eyes bright with expectation, and heart filled with hope for a successful—if not full of mischief—year at the academic institution of his choice. My husband and I were left alone. It’s true what they say, an empty nest really is as depressing as being the Vice President of the United States. Just as stressed, overworked and unappreciated as the real thing, but with significantly less people around to respect you.

It’s almost funny how lost Nathan and I found ourselves. Twenty-three years of living for our children had made us forget how to live for ourselves. Being the brilliant academics that we are—were, rather—we threw ourselves wholeheartedly into our work, and thus at the age of forty-three we had our own respective babies, our research. Sadly, belonging to two very different faculties and academic backgrounds meant that we began to spend less and less time together, and more and more time with our work.

Married to our work. The phrase comes close to describing just how lost the two of us really were. Thankfully, we came to our senses after only a few months—there was still enough youth in us yet to remind us of one of the driving reasons for marriage. So, our home life stabilized once more; those months were some of the happiest that we ever saw together.

We were finally content to just be.

Tragedy inevitably strikes at the oddest of times however, and just when we were at our most relaxed and happy time (save those spent with our children), I died.

It’s still odd to write that, even today, but nevertheless it is the truth. Not one week after our twenty-first wedding anniversary—coincidentally also marking twenty-four years of being a couple—I died in the university parking lot, not one hundred metres from my goal, the building in which my husband worked.

A good deed is sometimes repaid with ill. I found this out the hard way, in spades. Nathan was never a stickler for proper diet. Ironically, he was a biologist, giving him the best opportunity to lecture on the importance of nutrition. Unfortunately, it also meant he had an immense workload. Coupled with the natural absentmindedness of any good scientist, this inescapably led to two or even one meal days. Junk food of course, the idiot boy couldn’t be bothered to take a decent meal to work with him unless I packed it myself and shoved it into his hands on the way out the door in the morning.

Not that this ensured he’d eat it. I found no small number of pseudo-artfully hidden meals in the garbage the next day. You’d think that a man with a doctorate would at least be able to accomplish what his children had mastered before age ten. They, at least knew that it wasn’t possible to hide their uneaten lunches in plain sight. This is not the story of my family’s woefully ill eating habits however, so I digress.

It was still early November. The scenery was absolutely breathtaking. Canadian autumns really are incredible—the air was crisp and cool, the leaves had all turned their usual brilliant colours, and the ground was covered in the evidence. Nathan’s lab was at the very outskirts of the university grounds, quite near the forest, and the parking lot ground was covered in bright shades of red, orange and yellow. I remember smiling at them as I stepped out of my car. It had reminded me of our wedding day. The wedding itself was indoors of course, Canadian autumns aren’t quite that forgiving, but we had spent hours outdoors later on for the photography session.

It was my favourite time of year, the scenery was beautiful, and I was yet again reminded just how madly in love two people could be—so much so that they were willing to pledge themselves to each other in marriage and against the odds, stay together, all the while raising three beautiful children. Life was indeed at its best. Of course, some things were still the same, my husband’s wretched eating habits for one. I was not irritated with him this time—I was in too good a mood for that.

Instead, I did what most loving wives would do. It was my light day in any case—only two first year lectures to give—so I had painstakingly attempted to recreate his favourite meal. Not that I, or any loving wife for that matter, could possibly do justice to his mother’s signature dish, but he never once complained. It was one of my anniversary deeds to him.

We had long ago decided that the act of giving an anniversary present was completely commercial, and had instead instituted an anniversary month. Instead of a useless bauble, or heaven forbid, a kitchen appliance, I received a steady stream of thoughtful, sweet anniversary deeds. Fresh flowers for my favourite vase sometimes appeared, my oil paints were replenished, surprise weekends were spent alone, meals were cooked, and, contrary to his scientific nature—there was even the odd song or poem composed.

The night before, he had mentioned the dish in passing. I knew him better than that, and shook my head in amusement at the obvious longing in this eyes. So, when he had left for his lectures the next morning, I set about creating the best impression of genuine Chinese food I could accomplish without copious reliance on his mother. To be honest, it was my best attempt yet, and I was very upset for a long time that he was never able to attest to that.

So, I had carefully packed everything into the grandmother of all clichéd picnic baskets, driven to the far side of campus, and parked as close to his lab as I could. There was no way I could drag him away from his precious, disease infected mice, so I settled for eating in his office. There was no way in hell he could talk me into eating in the lab with him. The office was the best compromise.

With thoughts of my husband, and delicious scents wafting from the picnic basket, it’s no small wonder I didn’t hear or see the car until it was too late. Preoccupied with anticipation of Nathan’s reaction, and of course not dropping anything, the squeal of speeding tires caught my attention and was gone in the matter of a few seconds. The driver was most definitely speeding and under the influence of some new narcotic or the other. By the time he was stopped at the university gates, I was dead.

My body was surprisingly well intact, but the impact of the speeding car crushed my ribs, caused internal bleeding and the collapse of my lungs. Not to mention of course, significant brain trauma. My husband thankfully did not witness the accident, but his horrified lab assistant did. Nathan was the second person on the scene, and it irks me to this very day that I didn’t get a chance to tell him I loved him one last time. Cliché I know, but true.

Heaven knows he said it over, and over again that day. He cradled me in his arms, refusing to let even the paramedics take my body away. Oh, he knew I was dead, the academic in him couldn’t deny it—but the husband in him did. And so he held me one last time that autumn day, his salty tears mixing with my blood and blending well with our carpet of maple leaves. He screamed himself hoarse, cried until he had no tears left and pounded the ground until his blood joined my own. He cursed me that day in his anger—why did I have to die? He had always said that he’d be the one to go first, and now he was left to cope with the fact that I beat him to it.

I can only hope that my little family clung together and sought comfort in each other during the inevitably trying days or weeks that followed. The kids probably took leave from school to be with their father. Whether his family, or my own offered any assistance, I do not know. I wish I could have seen them during this time, or at least know that they could take comfort in my spiritual presence. I wouldn’t even have minded attending my own funeral if it helped them. But alas, life, and even death sometimes isn’t entirely fair. There were times when I could practically see them mourning for me—Ethan, my eldest son silently standing by with tears running down his cheeks; Cara, usually the proud stoic sobbing into her father’s shirt; and Alek, our baby boy, trying so hard to imitate the composure of his brother. It hurt to think of them in pain, hurt even more to know that I was not only the cause of their pain, but that I couldn’t comfort them in any way.

I guess in some ways not being able to be with them was a blessing. It saved me from even more emotional hurt.

You’re probably wondering then how I know what happened that fateful day since I wasn’t there in body (for very long) or in spirit. The truth is even more alarming than it would be if I was spiritually there.

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A/N: I wrote this prologue a looooong time ago when I was in a particularly odd mood. I don't know if/how I'll continue it, but I thought I should post it anyway. Who knows, perhaps I'll get inspiration from a review.

Danica