Before and After

Marcus had always found the idea of eternity exhausting. Heaven, with its promise of forever-fellowship with departed loved ones, struck him as a kind of cosmic family reunion that never ended. The thought made him want to hide in a bathroom somewhere, even in paradise.

But sitting in the oncologist’s waiting room, watching dust motes dance in afternoon light, a different thought crept in.

*What was it like before?*

Before his first breath, before his mother’s labor pains, before the formation of his tiny heart. Where had he been for the billions of years that preceded his existence? Had he suffered? Had he been afraid? Had he minded the wait?

The answer was obvious: nowhere. Nothing. And it had been perfectly fine.

He’d read somewhere that Mark Twain said he’d been dead for billions of years before being born, and hadn’t suffered the slightest inconvenience from it. Marcus smiled, remembering. The great American humorist, making light of the ultimate darkness.

His name was called. As he stood, Marcus realized something had shifted. The fear wasn’t gone—death was still unknown territory, still the ultimate surrender of control. But the idea of returning to that same peaceful nowhere he’d emerged from?

That didn’t seem so terrible after all.

The nurse smiled at him. “Ready?”

He nodded. In a way, he supposed, he always had been.