By Danny Johnson
“Do you believe in the hereafter?” I sat in front of my mother’s grave, whiskey bottle in hand.
“I don’t know, do you?” My shadow only spoke when no one was around.
“Sometimes I do and other times I don’t.”
“What makes the difference?”
“I think things like, ‘this can’t be all of it’, then I have this dark fear that this just might be all of it.” I rolled over to prop up on my elbows, getting the long view of my dark twin.
“Are you afraid of going to Hell?” For a shadow he asked hard questions.
“No, that’s the fear, that neither Heaven or Hell exist.”
“I’m glad you do, because I don’t. What makes us believe in something we have no proof is there?” I took another swig.
“Whose faith? The Jews, the Catholics, the Christians, the Islamist, the Buddhist?”
“Any of them.”
“You mean they’re all right?” Even drunk I wasn’t buying that.
“What I mean is, it only matters what you believe.”
“What if I die and I was wrong?”
“Who will know?”
“I will.” I drained the last drops from the bottle.
“I guess you will have to deal with it then.” He could be a smartass.
“But it’ll be too late.”
“To have chosen the right way.” I was getting exasperated.
“What is the right way?”
“I don’t know.”
“There you go.”