Guardian (continued)

I wonder if that will make eternity seem to last even longer—if such a thing is possible. I remember a line from some television show: “The problem with immortality is that it’s boring.” I suppose that living an eternity in this state—or any state, I imagine—must be a lot like that. I haven’t been existing in it long enough yet to know, but I can see how that might be.

A memory comes to me of the cool, damp scent of pre-dawn, that time when the dew has settled like mist on everything before the morning sun burns it away. Most people start their days too late to notice it, but I remember it well, for I often left for work in the pre-dawn hours in order to avoid the worst of the traffic that clogs the California freeways from dawn until nightfall.

I thought I’d miss that, but I find a certain longing for it—for the solitary time alone in my car listening to one narrator or another reading from some old book I’d once read. It was my way of returning to the novels that I remembered from my younger days, having little time in the evenings to read both new stories and revisit old tales. That I will never be able to read to Jessica is a loss that I’m not sure that I considered before. For something so important to me, you’d have thought that I would have given it some consideration. Perhaps I did; I no longer remember.

What else have I forgotten? Is that how this existence ends—that my memories slowly fade, one by one, until none remain and whatever I am now is gone? That seems a horrible way to go, but I’m not sure I’ll even be aware of it. I mean, how can you realize that you’ve forgotten something that you no longer remember? I seem to remember everything about my life . . . at least no less than I think I remember while still living it. There is that four-year gap after my living existence ended, but I think that’s a different thing. For all I know, I spent them on the bank of a great world-spanning river. Or somewhere on Mars. Or . . . I have no idea.