The Man Whose Coffin Melted

By: Jordan Seifert

One thousand years ago death became a business. It had always been a business, but it was more the work of high class garbage men than real scientists. Gone were the days of putting makeup on bodies and selling overpriced coffins and plots of land to grieving widows. In its place a world of remarkable loneliness took shape. Highly trained experts, peaks in both the mental and physical categories, were chosen to cross over into the afterlife. So long as the dust of those who died remained in some way, they could be spoken to.

The afterlife was discovered to be not the plateau of existence, but of land. The mental realities of those who have died are transferred to a single image, almost resembling a painting. This is the floor. There are no walls and no ceilings, no objects to hold or interact with. Instead, those who have died stand in one spot at the center of their reality and look all around themselves at the composition of their life… Forever. A beautiful, sometimes painful image where strong emotions appear in the middle of the painting, and softer, quainter memories make up a frosted border that can barely be seen, let alone remembered.

Human beings can cross over into these afterlives. For as long as you can sustain yourself, you can visit your loved ones and dance across their floor, built one hand painted tile at a time. They can speak to you, and they can feel your touch, but the dead will not move from their place. At first this science was used to unlock secrets and uncover the answers to old mysteries, but eventually it turned to a scam yet again. Families were offered the opportunity to step into the gates of another world and be with their loved ones. Feel their touch, hear their voice and be near them. With this, goodbye could be said again and again. Visits to gravestones became full on trips, more morbid than sad.

Over a thousand years, it became the rule rather than the exception. It’s strange to think that even traditions evolve over time. It seems against their nature. What came next was my own discovery. Or rather, an idea I had, and an inclination that I felt deserved trial. Going into a loved one’s inner sanctum seemed so wrong to me. There was only one person I’d ever want to share my painting with. I didn’t want people pouring over the details of my life, not that I had anything to hide. So when my wife died, I had a traditional coffin built for her. An oak coffin lined with silk fabrics and a down pillow. Two steel banisters were painted gold and ran along the sides. I had her name engraved on it--Gwen.

Gwen and I had fallen in love, and for one hundred years we had been married. As life expectancy grew, so did divorce rates, but there was something special between her and myself. Special in the way that millions can feel it without ever knowing it--but we did. No matter how often we fought, and it was never very often, or how long we spent together, not a day went by that we didn’t feel it had the potential to be the best of our lives. When she died, I felt a hole come into my heart. A tiny spot.

I spent every day that I could at home in my own personal viewing room. Mahogany frame ran across the walls, and curtained windows let in just the right amount of sun. Deep light set a mood of comfortable sorrow, complimented by a burgundy patterned rug and a beautifully set wallpaper trimmed in gold. I had rows of chairs lined up to fill the empty space and I sat in every one. The seats were always cold. I kept Gwen’s coffin up on display for only two years before I succumbed to death myself.

I never saw what happened next, but I know exactly what came about. I had saved my entire life in order to afford a trip into deep space. Two tickets, one for myself and one for my partner. Our coffins were launched from opposite sides of the planet, forever to be forgotten in the depths of space. It was hard to secure licensing for such an operation. As materials became scarce on Earth, it wasn’t exactly seen as ideal to launch perfectly good product into blackness to be forever lost. Not even in the name of love, whatever that is.

Gwen and I separated. Not just in body, but in mind. Floating off, I could not feel it or see it, but I could almost taste it. I looked around me and I saw my painting. A dotted green Earth, characterized by swatches of my own individuality. Surrounding it were deep colours filled with hands and faces, all of them friendly. They continued on farther than I could ever hope to see. If I focused, I could look at every detail, I could push on past the vast image of the Earth and see right down to the cities and houses and gardens. Almost as if I had a magnifying glass right in my eye. For a trillion years I combed every single part of that Earth for Gwen, but I never found her. After I looked past every leaf in every forest and inside every window of every home I gave up. Even in the sea of humanity that came together past that painting of a planet there was no sign of Gwen. Every person I’d ever known was there, smiling in a deep rouge. Some of them were waving to me in their fraction of my still death painting.

After a hundred trillion years I began to feel a warmth. The lukewarm nothingness dissipated and my body felt soothed. I had counted every second of every supposed day, but I began to lose track. Soon my mind became flooded with new thoughts and new hopes. Even after all that time alone, I was still capable to expand as a human being. I wondered if that’s how the Universe feels. By this time it would be empty and all the stars would have died out long ago, but it could still be growing. It could still have new things to say.

An even further incalculable distance passed by. Hundreds of trillions of years of warmth and modest comfort and finally I could see a speck in the distance. I waved. As the speck drew nearer, I could see a painting come into light. Emotionless white space save the ever approaching dot on the invisible horizon. Not knowing what to say or do, I just stood for a few thousand more years. The time stretched on far longer than it had previously. I was lost in anticipation.

Eventually, that painting splashed against mine, and slowly but surely, the two seas of ink crumbled apart against one another. I could see Gwen, standing and watching me. She couldn’t hear my voice yet, but there she was.

And over time, a new painting came to be. The two merged not as a flat canvas, but as a sprawling field of height and object. Millions of blades of grass made from splices of paint stood tranquil, each dotted with its own image; it’s own story. I could feel the life under my toes and I remembered something I had forgotten for so long. How to walk. I took a step, and then another, and then I walked right towards Gwen and gave her a hug. Soon she was walking too, and I took her hand.

She asked why we had come together. I explained to her that it was a serious gamble. Had she not have been thinking of me so often and so lovingly, it might not have worked. Putting two bodies together after death didn’t seem right. That would be just like life, and death is nothing like life. It’s a reflection of self and what makes it what it is. If the bodies could be allowed to separate, and they still wanted to see one another even after so long, that reflection might change. I asked her if she’d ever seen me in her painting. She hadn’t. Keeping two people apart, in the end, only makes them want to be together even more. We were on the exact opposite sides of the Universe in body, but it didn’t make a difference.

At the rate of movement of the two planes of paint, I figured we had about as much time to run, dance and be together as we had on Earth. Explaining this to Gwen made her sad, but if we wanted to keep close, we’d have to wait so long to make it worth it. As the Universe looped, our real bodies would eventually come closer together and maybe even pass one another, barely missing. But after a few hundred trillion more years, we’d be able to spend time together again as we reached the peak of just how far apart we could be. That would be the moment we’d long for each other most.

As time wore on, I refused to regret that eventually the grass would wear away and I’d be left to stand a statue in service of my old life. We studied each blade of grass, carefully going over memories and significance. Remembering and loving. And those years went by so fast. It seemed like forever, but they were so very fast. When we finally split apart, I felt sadder than I ever had before, even knowing that I’d see her again. Resigned to my position, I looked down at the Earth. Closer and closer I came, studying every brush stroke until looking through my window, I saw a note resting on my kitchen table. It read thank you.