By Sophie Hoss
After I died, I received an itemized list of everyone who ever had a crush on me. It was two pages long, which was shorter than Becky’s list but longer than Doug’s. The lady in charge said we shouldn’t compare apples to apples. Do you know what that actually means? I never found out, and now I’ve got bigger problems on my hands. For example, my ninth grade science teacher really was just as creepy as I suspected he was. Also, for example, all those mopey poems I wrote about Sarabeth not liking me were totally pointless. We could have had our first gay kisses with each other instead of with random drunk girls who wanted to make their ex-boyfriends jealous. Many of the things I loved most were things that had no earthly way of loving me back. A hot bath on a cold morning. A well-played game of chess. Roller skates.
Some of the people on the list were people whose names I’d never even learned. The cashier at my grocery store. The girl who once sat next to me on a flight to Dallas. That boy from kindergarten who ate all the sand out of the sandbox. Giovanna was on the list too, of course, but I already knew she’d be there. Still—it was nice to see it in writing. Words are my love language. She was squeezing me so tight when I died that she might have actually been what killed me. Either way, I can’t blame her. How many people can say they died being hugged? Based on my preliminary surveys, not many.
I can still smell her shampoo. I know I’ll start missing her soon, but for now, there’s too much to do. Mingling with other newly dead people is a little bit like the first day of college. Everyone is nervous and wants to make friends. We’re going to be here for a while. Becky and Doug want to go check out the cafeteria, and I tag along. People always told me this was where it ended, but to tell you the truth, I think I’m just arriving. Any minute now, everything will start. The lights will come on. We’ll see what we’ve all been waiting for.
Sophie Hoss loves the ocean and is in bed by 9:00 p.m. every night. She has received a Pushcart Prize, and her words are scattered around in BOMB Magazine, The Baffler, Split Lip, Ninth Letter, Wigleaf, and elsewhere. Also, she has a small dog named Elmo who likes to wear little sweaters. You can read more of her work at sophiehosswriting.com.