I don’t know what’s going to happen after I leave this Earth.
Biologically, my heart will stop pumping blood through my body and my cells will stop replicating. My body will begin to rot and decompose, pushing all of my carbon back into the ground, redistributing my nutrients.
In a medical sense, I will be pronounced dead. The heart rate monitor attached to my finger (assuming that there is one available) will flat line, nurses will run into my room, try and resuscitate me and eventually close my eyes and mark down my time of death.
Physically, my eyes will lose their luster. My body will grow cold and hard. The continuing hum of warmth that once radiated from my skin will be lost to the sky.
Spiritually, I have no idea as to where I’ll go. Maybe after I die I’ll meet Anubis, who (according to the ancient Egyptians) was the god of death. I might get my heart weighed against a feather, or I might just seize to exist.
I once tried to gamble for my well being, or at least I think I did. I was at the Basílica do Sehnor do Bonfim and I made a wish using a tiny piece of string. There is a tradition at the church that if you make a wish, tie a string to a fence gate and knot it three times, you’ll get your wish when the string withers away. Me, being paranoid as ever, decided to get insurance on my deal. I tied a yellow string to my wrist and made the same wish. I asked God to:
“Keep me safe until I get home.”
Even though I got “home” a long time ago, I still wear my bright yellow string. Part of me does it because it’s become more than just a wish, but a promise. A promise that even though my body will one day grow cold and frail, I’ll still be able to make it home.