by S.R. Schulz

After the accident, I will say we lived.

I will say we lived because the outcome must be infinite. It must be boundless—like our spirits—because no matter how hard they try and twist the truth, or dilute the immensity of our actions, the impact is immeasurable—like radio waves carried out into the galaxy long after the listener stopped listening, we will echo off the dark-matter and planets and stars as we race to the ever-expanding edges of space.

I will say we lived because we will not be forgotten like so many departed. And when they tell the stories of our feats and gambles, our musings and teachings, our faults and vices, the people will not be able to contain their eager curiosity for our epilogue. But as they try and plot out our odyssey, to map our path, they will find we did not settle out in Ithaca but we live on in the hills, in the skies and the valleys. We live on in late night basements, in summer days peppered with thunder, in meadows steeped in fog. We live on in the souls of the restless and those striving for life, clawing and kicking to keep from the void.

I will say we lived because tragedy cannot be allowed to triumph today.

I will say we lived because death could never defeat us.

S. R. Schulz is a physician living in the twin cities. His work has appeared in Page & Spine, Apocrypha and Abstractions and Minnesota Medicine.