Everyone thought I was dead. They were right.

Everyone thought I was dead, and they were right. My vision came suddenly into focus, momentarily disorienting me. I reached out to steady myself and gasped when my hand passed right through the wooden doorframe as though it were made of air. Looking down at my hands I realized it wasn’t the doorframe that was made of air, it was me.

My body ran the spectrum of pale translucence: white, gray, blue and everything in between, the colors feathered at the edges like a faded watercolor. As I moved I couldn’t feel the floor under my feet, finding myself floating rather than stepping, and it took me several moments to get the hang of moving around.

The air was filled with the scent of lilies and rain, fat drops splattering against the stained glass windows of the church. As I looked around I saw the faces of the people who loved me, some collapsed in grief and others blank with calm acceptance. The pews were filled, and despite the palpable grief permeating the air, I smiled as I walked down the aisle; as I’d requested everyone was wearing red.

The congregation was broken into several groups: dancers, family and a handful of former high school classmates. I saw faces I hadn’t seen in years, friends with whom I’d fallen out of touch, family I never saw and dancers I hadn’t known even knew who I was.

I lingered in the wings, listening as each person spoke about how I had touched their lives, the impact I’d had on them and how they would miss me. The stories made me smile, laugh and cry. I was content in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be forgotten.

My gaze shifted and I found my husband sitting in the front row, his face expressionless; dark circles under his eyes punctuating the tired pallor of his skin. In his hand he held the smooth worry stone I’d carried with me always, his thumb caressing the groove in its face over and over, like a physical chant.

Walking across the church I squatted down in front of him, reaching out and touching his cheek. He gasped, his eyes going wide and darting around the room, and I fell backwards in surprise. Had he felt me touch him? I reached out again and touched the tip of my index finger to the tip of his nose, as I had often done at bedtime, and with that he seemed to calm.

Looking discretely from side to side to see that no one was watching him, he called my name under his breath, “Melissa?” It was a question, posed to check his own sanity I guessed, and not knowing if he would be able to hear me I again touched his nose with my finger.

Color returned to his face in a red rush, clearing his eyes and bringing a tentative smile to his face. Moving closer to him I leaned down and spoke close to his ear, “What happened to me?” I asked, and I knew he’d heard me when his now bright eyes widened.

“Later,” he whispered, his pulse pounding against the side of his neck, “At home.”

Home. Heaven is what we want it to be, and being with him was mine.